Family in Darkness
by Overpoint65
Summary: England was not his problem. England should never have been his problem. But when a magical mishap de-ages England into a vulnerable child, India can't turn away. Now, along with his sisters Bangladesh and Pakistan, he must fix it before past and present tear him apart.
1. Chapter 1

Family in Darkness - Chapter 1

An Old Chestnut

* * *

Soft orange candlelight lit the tile as England finished his observations, the enchanted pen taking notes as he handled the brass measurements. Sickly green light lit the center of the room, dimly caging the wisp with no form. There was barely room for the two of them, Nation and spirit, with the door shut and warded. After a short while- the times for summoning were always short- England took a thin grey powder and placed it through the East and West circles in the array.

At once the green light flared, drowning out all else in the room before dying, extinguishing the wisp with a quiet pop. England waited for a moment to blink the purple spots from his eyes, before sighing and checking on the enchanted pen.

_Damn it. _

The pen had been on the blink for months and was transcribing at only one quarter speed- although a quick diagnostic found it's memory storage was unaffected. He looked at the clock- 1am. He should have been able to leave the pen unsupervised and go to bed- if he'd fixed it. As he should have done last week. Or the week before that.

But there was nothing to be done about it now, he needed to be awake tomorrow and the chances of a problem were low. He sighed and stood, wincing at the pain that lanced through his head, and trying to blink away the migraine aura that had been flaring on and off almost constantly since the Brexit referendum. The crazy thing was that the meeting tomorrow, the one he needed to be awake for, would inevitably have it come up even if it wasn't on the agenda. He spent a good twenty minutes cleaning away materials and books and finally made a brief trip to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. Even that much made his vision flicker.

He settled on the edge of the bath and lent against the wall. Sipping his tea, he could do nothing but wait for it all to go away.

* * *

The shoe sailed through the air in a graceful arc, hanging suspended in the air for the merest moment before falling..

"AHH FUCK-"

And smashed Prussia's nose in a fountain of blood.

"Nice shot." Bangladesh whistled appreciatively as South Italy whooped triumphantly. India grinned and gave it a polite round of applause.

It was three o'clock on a rainy Thursday afternoon in London, four days into their annual global conference. There was nothing to do, no deals to make in this middling no mans land of the week, so the nations were bored and the usual suspects frustrated. And so, inevitably, they fought. Bangladeshl and India kept score.

"Still, you'd hope so with all the practice he gets," he said mildly, and Bangladesh hmm'ed dismissively.

"I should hope so- I mean, how many times has he tried to batter him now?."

They watched as South Italy's attempt to follow up his attack was thwarted by tripping over England rolling on the floor with France in a game attempt to finally strangle him. Italy swore loudly and whirled around to shout at the offending nation, met England's eyes, paled, squeaked an apology, and scrambled in the other direction like a startled rabbit. England gave his retreating back a confused look, then looked at France. France looked back and shrugged. They went back to trying to murder each other.

Bangladesh snorted. "If he really wants to get better he should stop cowering whenever England so much as looks at him. It's pathetic."

India flinches and she suddenly looks contrite.

"I didn't mean...Sorry." There's a brief uncomfortable silence puncutated by the sound of a table being splinted by Russia's pipe. "Besides," she mutters, "It's different- Italy's got no reason to fear him. And you don't cower. From anyone." She stares at him.

He looks away and shrugs. It's true in a manner of speaking- the stregnth of being an up and coming superpower is a hell of a drug. His past is very much behind him.

But.

"I think they fought in World War Two." He says, not looking at her. She snorts.

"Then that was his own silly fault and he should get over it," her voice softens, "it's not the same." He opened his mouth to answer-

Suddenly, they ducked. A cup that had gone wild and smashed against the wall where their heads had been a moment before, showering them in shards of cheep pottery.

"Sorry!" Turkey called, waving at them from across the room before being rugby tackled by Greece. Bangladesh grunted and fixed her headscarf. India waved back and smiled.

"Moron." They said simultaneously.

"Good to see him blowing off steam though." India said after a moment, having no desire to go back to their previous conversation. Bangladesh gave him a look out the corner of her eye.

"You mean rather than blowing up ISIS?" A pause while his sister pretended not to see him slouch in relief. "Yeah. He deserves a break." Another, more comfortable, silence descended. Unsurprisingly, it's Bangladesh who breaks it, carefully inspecting her nails and speaking with affected calm.

"Speaking of blowing up, what's happening between you and Pakistan?"

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. With anyone else he would have deflected - played the bigger, nobler man. Or at least rambled some self-serving bullshit. But Bangladesh was the only person who knew him well enough to tell how false it was- and properly understood the nature of the Situation with his twin. It would be pointless- not to mention disrespectful- to try and lie to her.

"Who the fuck knows." He said wearily. She winced, he never swore if he could help it. "At this point I think she just wants to piss me off. I just wish-

Green light and the stink of sulfur. That is what he'd remember of the explosion that punched him through the chest and smacked him back against the wall. Sound sunk into nothing then exploding with a sharp Crack! He felt it in his bones and collapsed to the ground gasping for breath, unable to even curl up to protect himself. For an awful 30 seconds he could see and hear nothing, and clung to the rough carpet as his inner ear rebelled and the world kept spinning.

What? A bomb? In the rolling dark and silence, it could be anything, but who would know to attack the nations? Who would want to?

After a moment his vision returned, filled with pink spots and after flashes of green. His hearing felt at first as if it came from underwater, muddied and distorted. Before it even cleared, he staggered upright and looked around.

It looked like a bomb had gone off. But after a few terrified heart beats he can see it can't be- or at least it can't be any bomb he's ever seen. There's no smoke, no trace of pyrotechnics to produce that flash, through the rotten egg stink of sulfur is choking. There's black ash though, and lots off it, coating every surface- he wipes his cheek and it comes away gritty and soot stained. But the ash isn't evenly or even randomly distributed, instead it curls out in organic loops and whorls in circles and radial patterns from the middle of a bundle of nations- the center point? But even as he watches, the other nation are stirring, scrambling out of piles or curling up to hold their heads and blink spots out of their eyes, disrupting the intricate ash trails. Even the four largest, that push all the way out and up to the four walls of the meeting room, are rapidly disrupted and become smeared by the confusion that erupts.

Shouting, yelling, and more fighting. India just stands there confused and woozy.

"What the hell did you do?!"

He whips around, shocked and nearly falls over his own feet as he lurches back to avoid stepping on his sister. She's sitting up and glaring daggers at him, face contorted in rage.

"What do you mean what did I do?" His head is whirling, what was this? Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"What?"

India waved his hands in a placating gesture. "I didn't do anything!" This didn't seem to help and her anger began to give way to a glimmer of worried confusion.

"Delhi I can't understand you. Did your head finally get big enough to break your brain? What are you saying?"

India blinked. He was talking normally- they often did this, him speaking Hindi while she used Bengali- both of them were fully fluent so what was the problem? He was speaking normally. But, now he focused on what she was saying, she wasn't. The language she was using was an old form of Bengali. Really old. He just hadn't noticed because of his fluency. And now he was paying attention he could see she looked different too. Her handsome face was younger than it'd been for centuries, now with the round cheeks of a child just under twenty rather than a woman nearing her thirties. And she'd called him Dehli. A horrible thought crept up on him.

"What year is it?" It came out slower than he'd like- he needed to focus not to slip into modern Bengali, but he saw her face clear and wide eyes relax into cultivated disdain. God, she looked young.

"Seven hundred and sixty four."

"Twenty eighteen". The he paused for a moment, "- actually it would be more like fourteen-twenty ish for you?". She gave him a strange look for a moment, then her face cleared and she rocked back on her knees.

"Time travel?" she looked around the room again, craning her neck. "Huh."

"...You're taking it better than I thought you would."

She shrugged. " 's interesting." She gave the room another once over and muttered to herself for a minute. Then she looked at him, her eyes full of so much fire that he took a step back.

"Do you know who did this?" she demanded.

"... ?" He said. Actually he had a suspect pool of one, which wasn't quite the same thing- as modern Bangladesh would have pointed out. As it was, she just gave him a look and jerked her head to the side in a 'go fetch' gesture.

So India pushed his way through the multi-coloured throng, hunting for the thick browed nation- he could just imagine him playing with magic to curse his siblings (or France, or Spain, or America, or...)- he'd always been both vengeful and creative, even before he showed his true colours. Weaving his way across the chaos he nearly tripped over Spain and Portugal, been accidentally bashed by Italy enthusiastically fussing over a furious looking brown-haired child, and had evaded the optimistic groping of a disturbingly young France. Luckily, where France was England and his brothers would be nearby- sure enough a small, scruffy child barrelled past him towards France clearly intent on doing some serious damage.

It was easy enough to scoop him up as he went past- and even easier to drop him again when a retaliatory kick rocketed into his groin. Groaning he got up and wobbled to the new tangle of limbs that represented that part of the world. Slowly, and with no small amount of help from Norway and Netherlands the last fight was disassembled into its various constituent parts. Hanging onto the squirming child India thanked his lucky stars that at least now the kid didn't have the stamina to fight all day and he could just wait the tantrum out. If I keep my wits about me, he thought with a wince as he extracted his arm from England's sharp little teeth.

Finally the boy calmed down enough that India could spare the attention to survey the damage. It appeared that perhaps a fifth of the nations had been deaged- he could see a few very young children who could be no older than 6 . As well as Romano, whom he had tripped over earlier, He could also see America and Mexico who were currently squabbling over a toy someone had given them and Argentina who was, against all odds, sleeping peacefully. There were also a few who, like Bangladesh, remained adults- or were near enough, even if they were significantly younger. However the vast majority were teenagers and rather irritable at that- new squabbles were already breaking out as he took the time to actually look at England. Covered in ink and chalk, he looked to be around twelve years old- certainly no older. He bore a strong enough resemblance to Sealand that, aside from the obvious- Finland would never have allowed Sealand out of the house looking that unkempt – they could have passed for twins. The only noticeable difference was that he was shorter and thinner. Although this didn't appear to translate into being lighter, unfortunately.

As he brought the boy back to Bangladesh he wondered how they were going to communicate- would it be too much to hope that England's' English would have remained mostly unchanged for the best part of 700 years?

Yes, yes it was. Not even Shakespearean English could provoke anymore than a flat look of distrust. This posed something of a problem as India didn't actually know enough about England's history to find a language that a) the boy would be able to speak and b) wouldn't provoke a violent reaction from him if asked to speak it.

"Now what?" asked Bangladesh, with all her characteristic charm and grace. Actually, now he was focussing he could tell that he'd slipped into a much older form of Bengali when speaking with her- one that, if a modern day Bengali had heard it, would have been completely unintelligible. So much for stubbornness theory. Damn.

Contrary to their bosses belief (and practices) most nations did not research the histories of their fellows, considering it a woeful invasion of privacy to do so. Besides it often wasn't very useful for their purposes anyway, as the number of serious history books willing to stick their neck out and go 'you know that guy who goes to every public dinner but only has an unlabeled broom cupboard for an office? He's over 4000 years old and gets head colds every time the economy crashes', was, perhaps unsurprisingly, quite rare. This, thought India, was currently spectacularly unhelpful - as the relevant rumour mill were currently all about four foot nothing- however it wasn't as if he knew no European history, and they would just have to make do.

The child was now glaring at them warily, although he wasn't trying to run back to fight with his brothers, which was good- although it also looked like it was simply a matter of time, which wasn't. India decided that offence or no he had to at least try to communicate- and if he failed he could always try asking England's brothers or….He looked around the room. Norway. Norway was next to England right? They were practically cousins! If not he could always swallow his pride and ask Australia. He would have liked to ask Bangladesh, as she was probably rude enough to have gone through someone's history books behind their back- especially England's. "You can't fight an enemy you don't know!" she would have said. But she wasn't here, and that wasn't her fault.

He refocused on England, and made an informed judgement (i.e. a wild guess). Luckily his first guess, Latin, turned out to be understood- unfortunately, however, India had rarely ever had cause to use it and England apparently didn't really understand what he was trying to ask, if the reply of 'I don't know place' was accurate. At least Bangladesh confirmed that England didn't think he'd done it, all though he also seemed to be under the impression that he couldn't do magic. India doubted noise level in the room slowly started to creep back up as he tried to think of an answer, and couldn't. Sighing, he started to explain to him that even it got him trouble, lying was still wrong (and anyway he wouldn't be in much trouble anyway as it was probably an accident), when Bangladesh poked him in the arm and told him to stop harassing the kid, he clearly didn't know what was going on. He opened his mouth to gently remind her that, as a temporal newbie, she wasn't the smartest person in the room right now-

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Germany's fuse, always on the brink, finally blew. Franky India was impressed he'd held on this long.

"Everyone pay attention! It is obvious that, for the time being that none of those affected can be left unsupervised for however long it takes them to recover! Not even the older ones,"he said, looking at Turkey disassembling his own smartphone. "Does anyone know what caused this?" Silence deafened the room- India felt the eyes track over to their position. He coughed and the eyes snapped up to him, rather than hovering somewhere near his armpit, where England had started to hide.

"He said he didn't do it Germany- he was quite adamant about it in fact" he said.

There was a snort to his left.

"And when have we trusted what he has to say on the matter?" Pakistan said. India could feel his hackles rise at her dismissive tone- but didn't want to give her the dignity of knowing that. Instead of looking at her, he glared at the front of the hall.

"Would you like to interrogate the temporally disadvantaged child, sister dearest? I'm sure he'll be so accommodating-"

"ENOUGH! Since I'm clearly the only one paying attention, I propose that those nations who are not affected should look after those who are- for younger nations this will mean full time care. Though with older ones should only need supervision. Any questions!" A few hands went up. "No? Gut."

As one being, most of the nations got up and left- lest they have a tiny nation inflicted on them. Pakistan stormed off, and Afghanistan gave them a little wave before chasing after her. Bhutan came up and made sure Bangladesh had all their phone numbers- and India couldn't help but notice that, along with most of Africa, Germany had also vanished as soon as he could. Difference being that he seemed to have a small tribe following him; tiny blond brother, both Italy's- as well as France, Spain, and Portugal. Although that seemed not to be entirely voluntary on Germany's part, given the grouchy slump to his shoulders. Australia waved at him as he left, a curly haired child under his arm. He laughed and gave Bhutan a hug before promising to call her, and was promptly sucked into the rising panic that was the vanishing of Mexico and America. After a brief panic Cuba yelled that they'd left with Canada, and that they were complete idiots for not noticing earlier. It was hard to argue with that.

After that the delegation of care became far more difficult- none of the Baltics could agree as to who was going to look after Romania and Bulgaria, and most of the middle east refused to even check on Turkey, who appeared to be faintly amused by the bickering, apart from when Iraq snatched the phone battery of him before he could find a way to pry it apart. Luckily Israel volunteered to check on Turkey, which even if it was only to spite Palestine and appear 'more mature and responsible', meant that one more could be crossed off the list. It also meant that everyone else also chipped in- if only to spite and/or thwart her. Argentina was eventually fobbed off on Chile (?) with much complaining whilst Greece was eventually picked up by Macedonia.

After that there were only a few left: the British Isles, Sweden, Denmark and the Russian siblings. They were a problem primarily because of their apparent (and occasionally unexpected) fondness for violence. Wales had bit the last idiot to try and pick him up, and his brothers looked like they might attack the next person who so much as looked at them funny. Ukraine was carrying a truly tiny Belarus and glaring at the world (slightly tearfully) as though it had personally offended her. Little eight year old Russia played with a bit of the chair that his sister had violently disassembled with the first aid mans' head. Poland had dragged the poor guy from the room, and sulkily declared that they could be someone else's problem for once. England meanwhile was scowling at all in his general vicinity. At least the problem of language had been sorted out, apparently India's first misgivings had been misplaced- French had been the, err, lingua franka of the day and most of Europe spoke it regularly, if not always fluently. Nonetheless, unless Bangladesh developed some hitherto unforeseen gift for insta-language learning, India could see the looming shape of a Latin dictionary on his personal horizon.

Not least because escaping with only Bangladesh in tow seemed more and more unlikely. No one seemed to want to take all of the British Isles- which yes to be fair, was a hell of a commitment, and no, he certainly wasn't going to stick his neck out to have to clean up after them. And, well -

"Obviously when I said all the British Isles I didn't mean 'lets put England and Ireland in the same bedroom', come on give me some credit"

"Honestly, I wouldn't have those two in the same house- not if I wanted it to be standing by the end of the week." Norway said. He'd been frustratingly stubborn for the whole conversation, standing there with his arms crossed and shooting down all suggestions put forward. India could feel his headache returning.

"But it seems cruel to have them be the only family separated- besides, England's what, thirteen? And Wales isn't much older." He tried to give Norway a significant look that boiled down to the essence of 'and that will not help any of them in the long run'.

Norway snorted.

"Look, I get you mean well but I'm not taking all of them- it's not safe and I don't have room" He shook his head and leveled a look at India which he really didn't know how to interpret. He hadn't been caught in the blast, as apparently that's what had 'caused' the change, but nonetheless hadn't escaped unscathed- green chalk splats showing an enthusiastic greeting from his neighbour Denmark, who now looked to have lost about seven years of visible age and a good ten pounds of muscle as he reverted to a wiry teanager. Norway turned back to India.

"Besides anyone who is able to take them all, shouldn't." He paused for a moment and gave India a look as cold as ice. "Why are you so interested anyway?"

A sigh was brutally stifled- Europeans were always so suspicious of anyone outside their arrogant little clique. "The Commonwealth would kill me if they got hurt- England might be an arsehole but some of their favourite uncles happen to be from that archipelago. Besides-" he frowned, "- it's not like there's a whole lot of options for them is there?"

Norway nodded- they (well, the UK) may not have been at the top of the 'worlds most aggressive nations' list for the best part of fifty years but it wasn't like the British Empire was a distant memory either. Brexit hadn't helped either- isolating them even further from those that would tolerate them before.

"If I take Ireland and Scotland- if Finland took the rest, would that be ok? He's only next door after all."Norway said. India nodded, and Norway called them over- unfortunately there was a problem.

"I can't take England." said Finland, looking terribly contrite for someone who'd just abandoned a small child. "I'm really sorry, India, Norway- I can take Wales, hell I think he and Denmark will get along great, but not England." Clearly his emotions must not have been as well hidden as he thought, because Finland took a deep breath and addressed him directly-

"-I'm really, really sorry India. I know the Commonwealth want you to make sure they're all ok, but we just can't take him…", Sweden placed a large soothing hand on Finland's shoulder.

"It w'ldn't be s'fe- n't with Seal'nd 'n the h'se." His voice rumbled with a finality which kind of pissed him off, if he was honest with himself. Norway's sigh and immediate apology- as if he should have foreseen this- did not help. Now India wouldn't say he knew England completely- but his worst side? Yeah, he probably knew more than these guys. And kids? The England he knew adored kids- Sealand might actually be the best thing for the little brat right now.

"You don't seriously think he'd hurt him do you?" He said, perhaps not as gently as he'd meant to. But hell, as much as he liked Russia, he was aware that the British Isles were the only ones who still hadn't been placed. He was even more aware that the kids were getting restless (apart from Denmark, who was fiddling with his nails), and that 'argument' translated in any language. And if there was one thing he prided himself on in the last three hundred years, it was that he'd at least been a half-competent pseudo-parent to the various waifs and strays trapped in the British Empire household.

Still, the muted coughing and shuffling that met his statement, made his blood run cold. The Nordics were avoiding eye contact, even Norway- and the tension in their shoulders made him think it wasn't just inconvenience that made them reluctant.

"..It's not that he's bad..from what I heard…" said Finland, eyes inspecting the once bland ceiling.

"J'st he's.." said Sweden, looking at the floor,

"Unpredictable." said Norway, looking him straight in the eye, "I like adult him well enough, but at this age he could be a real trouble maker. Anyway, if you're so worried, why don't you look after him? His home's not far from here and we won't be so far if you want them to be close enough to visit." He shrugged, "England would probably do better in one on one, or-" he gave a sideways look at Bangladesh, "-one to one-and-a-half adult supervision anyway."

"What sort of trouble maker?" said, India- not one to be sidetracked by such an obvious ploy.

Norway gave him a flat look. "The sort that doesn't always play nice with kids his own size, nothing you couldn't handle, but-", he gave a sigh, an shrugged. India gave him a long look- he had hoped it would communicate something like 'yeah, and how bad is it exactly?', but apparently something got lost in translation because Norway looked at his watch and replied,

"Look I need to go if I'm going to get these guys sorted in time for my flight tomorrow- if you want, I can get them to call twice a week? Who knows, maybe it'll stop them tearing the house down when we set up a meeting." He shrugged again before turning to his charges and saying something that sounded like a harsh, guttural relative of German or something. Scotland clearly said something to the effect of 'you're not the boss of me old man, go fuck yourself'- teenage body language apparently being one of those cultural universals. Ireland (should he call him Republic or South now?) rolled his eyes and asked him something else- Norway's answer made them all sit up straight, and India thought for a moment there might be an argument- particularly from England. But, there wasn't. Ireland looked uncomfortable for moment, but whatever Norway said clearly satisfied whatever was gnawing at him. Scotland looked almost relieved. India honestly couldn't tell what Wales thought of it all, but England's face was broadcasting his upset loud and clear- right up until he realised India was watching him.

India sighed, and Bangladesh sidled up to him.

"So, what now oh great guide to the future?" she said, curiously watching Finland cajole Wales out of the room.

"We take care of England, until the situation is resolved," he shrugged, and knelt down- outside of arm reach- he wasn't a total idiot. But Bangladesh taps him on the shoulder before he can say anything else and asks him what's happening.

"You and England are going to stay with me for awhile until this is resolved." He says it very calmly and professionally. She looks at him. He looks back.

"Like hell I am!"

* * *

For Bengal the world doesn't stop swimming till she sits down in her brothers horseless carriage- a 'car', he'd called it. It was a sleek dark thing full of something that probably wasn't leather and silver-coloured metal buttons, levers and knobs of mysterious function. Well most of them.

"- please don't ask me how planes stay up, I don't know and don't care." Delhi snapped, waving the hand on the steering wheel in a general expression of how unreasonable she was apparently being. Prick. Forewarned was forearmed and she might as well start now. Internal combustion engines in particular were a fascinating idea. Even beyond the immediate benefit- her time was unpredictable and about to be very dangerous. It would be regardless of what she did.

What was the phrase? Know thy enemy?

Instead of voicing her frustration - hadn't she done enough by submitting to his overbearing concern? - She simply rolled her eyes and fiddled with the radio, eventually settling on a channel that was playing something that sounded kind of familiar if she sought of mentally squinted and imagined that the players were hyperactive drunks. It felt unnatural to trust him with her back, even if he was distracted by driving. But still she had questions.

"That 'call' thing you were saying that England could do to talk to his brothers?" She keeps her voice light, no need to make it sound like the test it was.

"Yeah?" No tension, just mild curiosity.

""Does that use a string of numbers as a sort of address?"

He paused for a moment. "It lets you talk to the right phone, that's the thing you talk to the person through- so yeah, sort of?"

"So does that mean I can call our siblings at some point?"

"Yeah, sure- hell if you're feeling up to it I can show you how to work the phone tomorrow." He sounds enthusiastic, even as he scans the road for other cars at this strange circular junction. But why wouldn't he?

"Especially Sahadeva right?" she said, unable to stop a smirk curling across her lips. He froze and made an a aborted mouth motion. His shoulder went tight and his eyes furrowed with distress. Strange.

"..She's called Pakistan now." He said by way of a non-answer.

Something inside her twists. Shahadeva and Nakula were two sides of the same coin. They fought of course- occasionally brutally, but when the day was done they were always always on the same side. Even if they thought they weren't. A lifetime on the outside looking in had taught her that much.

She supposed the future really was a foreign country after all.

She tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

"So, how do you know England?" He flinches. She bites her lip.

"Can't I just take in a kid about to be abandoned?" She gives him a sharp look. Seven hundred years is a long time, but there are limits.

Although.. Wasn't that just a whole new puzzle? The conversation had happened in an alien language, and her brother hadn't bothered to translate for her- but she could hear the tone and it had been angry and resigned. The boy was a problem. Apparently. She glanced back at him, a scrawny little thing drowning in adult clothes, angry scowl overwhelmed by the largest eyebrows she'd ever seen. He didn't look threatening.

She glanced back at her brother's tense, unhappy face. Dehli, Nakula, her brother could be kind- if it benefited himself first of all. Decades and centuries of neglect and dismissal reared high in her memory. Joking, charming, adventurous and selfish. Her heart hurt when she thought of the last years before she'd finally had enough- every conversation, fine in isolation, leaving her more trapped than before. Charming days where he and Shaha made her feel welcomed and listened too- only for the rug to be pulled out from under her in the throne room and leave her feeling humiliated and foolish in their wake. She glances at the child. Then back at her brother- a good decade older than she knew him. Something wasn't adding up.

"No," she said eventually, just to make it clear. "No you can't." Wouldn't.

India sighed, a sad tired sound that makes her stomach curl up in shame a little. But at the same time. Should she just let him direct her wherever? She was already having to stay with him.

"It's not the thirteen hundreds anymore." He said quietly. There's a quiet pause, the boy even stops kicking his seat- presumably picking up on the tension.

"We were close." She has to strain her ears to hear it.

And you aren't anymore. She swallows around the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore."He shrugs limply. It does, it clearly still does- but if he doesn't want to talk about it then she can't force him.

Instead she turned to watch the world speed by. At first it made her feel dizzy and slightly sick, but after a while her stomach settled and she could watch the people go by in the minutes they spent stuck behind other cars. They were interesting, along with people who were more normal shades of rich brown where many who were the same pasty white and pink as the nation in the back seat, or the deep glossy black she associated with Ethiopeans. Still others were a bright, painfull looking red. But most interesting of all was the tattoos - bright swirling colours forming faces and birds and abstract designs that stretched over entire arms or legs- or even faces. They were beautiful, and inwardly she marveled at the precision and artistry, as well as the ability to avoid infection.

In fact even glancing through the window she could see that maybe that wasn't such an issue- the people to a fault were uncommonly tall and handsome- their skin mostly free of smallpox scars and their bodies with the pleasing proportions of the well fed. She glanced back at- what was he? England? With curiosity. The child was scrawny and wild looking, monstrous eyebrows drawn tight in a scowl as he kicked the back of her brothers chair again. No, she still couldn't see it. He looked to her like a wild underdeveloped land, and she had gleaned he was from the far west and north- a backwards land in her own time. So perhaps the world was just like this now?

Hope, a fragile thing she tried to keep under control, bloomed beneath her breast. She glanced back at her brother, boyish roundness and arrogance eaten away by time. Maybe. Maybe the future was bright.

"So who do you know capable of messing about with a time machine? I want to thank them." She's only half joking. If possible, India's face fell even further.

And he told her.

* * *

Dinner had not gone well. It had taken a full hour to convince England that the food wasn't poisoned, and sure the food wasn't quite up to India's standard, England's fridge being so neglected. Still, it was a damn site better than what England, at any age, would have produced, so he couldn't help but feel offended when he'd shoved his chair back two feet and given the curry an unholy glare.

Bangladesh's coughing was not helping- I mean really, he'd only used a little bit of chilli, far less than she normally used, what was their problem? It'd taken until ten o'clock and being south of an Anglicised Indian takeaway before he'd remembered that chillis were a new world crop, and thus neither of his charges would have been even remotely familiar with them.

On the bright side however, England was easily herded off to one of the many spare rooms, feet not quite dragging - but definitely looking like they would if he caught him unguarded. Bangladesh was equally exhausted and made her way to the room next door, only stopping to ask him where she could wash and go to the loo and such- she seemed very impressed with the bathroom and gave it a sleepy nod of approval before sloping of to bed. Honestly, he could get information out of her tomorrow, being flung into the future could hardly be an easy experience. His face split into a jaw popping yawn, and he finally let himself slump - submitting to the tiredness that had been nibbling at him for a couple of hours. He gave a long look at the remaining two doors, there were more rooms upstairs, but to be honest he couldn't be arsed to climb the staircase. And besides, it felt silly to avoid rooms he hadn't even seen in decades. So he opened the door to his old room, and breathed a small sigh of relief that it had been repainted. Refurbished too- although he supposed that was inevitable given the mess the bomb had made of the whole house.

He spared a glance for the stout wooden door of the master bedroom looming at the end of the hall. They'd need to have a look in it at some point, as England may have stored useful information in his bedroom at some point, and if they were going to fix this….

Well, it's not as if it had to happen tonight, yeah? Besides, it was almost certainly locked- and possibly not only with methods mundane and ordinary. So there was no point in banging the door down now and waking everybody up. He could leave that till the morning.

* * *

Light blazes through his eyelids as his body aches, just breathing in the smell of damp grass and sheep that signals the countryside. He tries to get his breath back, having been winded by the fall.

He groans and rolls over, only to have the end of his nose nibbled on by an overly optimistic sheep, he opens his eyes so he can get the dratted thing _away from him_ this instant when he spots the rather gobsmacked looking shepherd. He was middle aged and brown haired, with a red pockmarks complexion that spoke of long term alcoholism- the worst thing, however, was his clothes. They were medieval. And not in the quaint, historically inaccurate way of Ren fairs either.

He pokes at the connection.

Ah. Bugger.

He sighs. Clearly it was just one of _those_ days. Wonderful.

* * *

He wakes up and it_ burns _in a way it hasn't for decades...

He curls up, whimpers and rides it out.

* * *

She hasn't felt like this since she can remember- the lightning skitter of a people's rage, the strength of a nation going to war. She runs to a balcony in the palace she hasn't seen in centuraries- below is a sea of men, pikes bristling in the sun. Their banners unfurl, and the familiar face of Ilyas Shah marches out in front of his men. Her mouth goes dry.

_Well shit._

* * *

The world expanded in the dark, the veil stretching thinner- lines of reality crisscrossing it like spiderwebs. The creatures, formless, voiceless, almost thoughtless, stretch and coil and move- _outwards._

* * *

AN: Yay! it worked! So I'm just going back to clarify a few historical things. Bengal is Bangladesh more or less- though half of historical benga is now in India 1) The periods of history young England and Bengal are from are quite turbulent- England because Europe at this point was 50 cats fighting in a bag and Bengal because she's currently trying to break away from the rulership of the Dehli Sultanate who iiisss- India. And Pakistan. I imagine them as twin entities who untill relitavely recently were a bit like North and South Italy, two representations for one (very large, very fractured) area. Historical India is actually really difficult to apply Nation-tens to because it has so many independent kingdoms, but at the same time a young nation tan still feels... wrong given how old the cultures actually are. So behold the fudge! Two people who represented many kingdoms up untill partition. Not especially original but it works for this.

AN2: So major revision as I was feeling bored by my own story and needed to rework it to make it more fun.


	2. Chapter 2

AN; Now I've set the stage (and gone back and added an A/N to the first chapter... oops) lets go! shopping. Lets go shopping.

* * *

Family in Darkness- Chapter 2

An Unavoidable Problem

* * *

Dawn broke cold and damp over the foreign land- and far earlier than she would have expected it to. It appeared understanding the implications of a heliocentric solar system was one thing, and experiencing the off kilter solar behaviour of the far north first hand was quite another. Especially when your gracious brother hadn't even thought to warn you. Bengal pootled around the kitchen in the pale light, poking her nose into the cold box, as tall as a man and about as wide, at the end of the counter. It didn't contain much more than milk in an odd square bottle and a transparent white box of that aggressively spicy vegetable curry they'd been fed last night. It hadn't been terrible, but it had been a shock, and honestly she hadn't been feeling up to it. There were also a few leftovers from the 'takeaway', which had been nice, if a bit greasy. But although working the wash box had been easy enough, she wasn't going to chance it with a cooker- and cold, greasy onion bhajis did not appeal- at least, not without a hot cup of tea.

She shivered, despite her fluffy robe, the cold was still making game attempt to freeze her toes as she wandered just outside the large glass doors and looked over the lush garden. She yawned but, northern summer or no, she still wouldn't have slept much longer. Even fiddling with the radio hadn't helped, and her dreams had been strange - crawling with creatures she couldn't remember, intercut by strange voices and the strange half dreams that fed through the Connection. Images she couldn't understand and voices she couldn't decipher whipped through her brain, fading to nothing as she woke- aggressively confusing. And the Connection- she gripped her glass of water compulsively, the Connection hadn't settled overnight. It still felt like trying to haul something heavy with the world's thinnest wire, biting into the hands of the mind and getting her nowhere. It set her teeth on edge.

She was interrupted by the clattering of a window high above her head, and she stepped out from under the roofs overhang to have a look. A small figure dangling from the windowsill attempting to reach the pipe that ran down the length of the house. Occasionally he'd swing to grab at it - miss by a hair and then fight to regain his grip. After one particularly desperate readjustment she squeaked in concern. England looked down. Bengal looked up.

They stared at each other for a moment- then England leapt straight out of the first floor window and onto the grass, before bolting across the garden. Bengal raced after him, and even with his impressive turn of speed he couldn't make it even halfway to the wooden fence before being tackled by her. They collapsed in a shower of limbs, and being about as athletic as an asthmatic ox, she was very grateful to have a head of height on the wiry little boy. Otherwise she would have been picking her teeth out of the grass.

"Hey-", she reared back to avoid a ballistic headbut, " - watch it! Quiet down, we're not here to OW!" Yanking her hand away from the sharp little teeth gave him an excellent opportunity to try and punch her lights out, luckily she managed to grab his wrist in time, but the kid just would not stop and listen. Nope, instead, despite her trying to reason, he was just trying to throw her off him. Then he managed to actually slap her- a sharp stinging sensation across her cheeks, and she'd had enough. Grabbing a chunk of hair and scarf, he rocketed forward to headbut her again and-

"AAAAAAHHHHH".She screamed, loud and shrill, straight in his ear. His head would have made an almighty crack against the ground, had they not been fighting on grass- as it was the thump sounded pretty painful. He sat there slightly stunned for a moment and she grabbed his other wrist and pin them both to his chest. Then they sat there breathing heavily.

"Are you ok?" she asked in rusty Latin, keeping her voice perfectly level. the kid was a ball of tension and still looked like he might just lash out.

He gave her a bog-eyed stare with those lamp-like green eyes of his before nodding very carefully.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Are you going to try to run away again?"

This was met by resolute silence. She could feel her shoulders slump; it looked like Dehli hadn't just been being helpful when he'd insisted she stay with him. She bit her lip and wracked her brain for what to say. She'd never been much of a people person, and honestly she'd always found children a hindrance to her research. But she wouldn't just let one run about alone in a strange place in nothing but sleeping clothes and a ridiculously oversized great coat. He didn't even have any shoes for goodness sake!

So she pondered the problem for a minute before saying.

"Is it because we're strangers?" He gave her a scornful look, which, yes she supposed was obvious. "Is there no way we can convince you we don't mean you harm?" His snort said it all. Nonetheless, she couldn't exactly let him up if he was just going to run away again, he was already scanning the area for an escape route. Then a brain wave hit her.

"Is it the connection?" she said, and suddenly those big eyes were back on her. "Yes?" she said and although he didn't nod, there was a definite lack of struggling. "Does it feel- I don't know- stretched out? Distracting? Wrong?" After a moment he nodded.

"Ok, then let's make a deal- I help you find out what's going on with the connection, and you promise not to run away." He's quiet for a moment then nods. "Besides-" she continues, "I happen to be the best mind in all of South Asia- and I think our mutual friend believes your older self knows more about this than he should." She gives him what she hopes is a conspiratorial look and says. "So it would be a bit silly to run away from the place where he lives you know?"

Finally she gets up and brushes herself off, she takes the fact that he doesn't immediately run away as a good sign. "Now, do you want some breakfast?"

He nods and stands up, ignoring her proffered hand, instead opting to pick at his muddy hands and wipe of the grass. Quietly they walked back to the kitchen, and Bengal took the moment to assess him out of the corner of her eye. He still gave his surroundings a once over and he held himself in an almost unnaturally stiff posture. He was an odd kid, but the black smudges under his eyes clearly showed how strongly the weirdness of the connection was affecting him. She almost winced in sympathy. Hopefully they could at least alleviate the problem, she wasn't looking forwards to spending, what? Days? Weeks? Sleep deprived and plagued by those not-quite-nightmares. It'd send her insane.

Of course, having promised him breakfast,she'd now need to produce it. She avoided the cooker completely- she wasn't stupid. But she had at least seen India work the cylindrical water heater, and, after a few false starts she found she could at make edible toast in an oblong box thing. England seemed perfectly happy to munch on the charcoaled ones, and after tearing his way through his first cup of tea she relaxed. The silence became distinctly more comfortable, and England let himself slouch a bit- she refilled his plate with toast when he cleared it, and couldn't help but notice that past his exotic colouring and generic nation prettiness that for all his attitude there was no meat on his wiry frame at all. Although, she thought ruefully, it wasn't as though that adult sized coat was doing him any favours- he looked like a blond, bedraggled cat.

She let him finish his tea before commencing with the interrogation. Or at least, that's what you would have called it if you'd only seen his reaction. As soon as she sat down he stiffened his back and gave her that hard flat look that really wasn't half as threatening as he seemed to think. Regardless, she tried to look friendly- the kid might be difficult, but she didn't get the feeling he'd just go and attack her if he got uncomfortable.

"Now, I know this will sound silly," she said, putting on her best 'I'm a nice friendly adult voice', which got her such a look that she decided to just keep to normal, "-but I don't actually know where I am." England gave her a look which she suspected translated to "?", so she elaborated.

"Obviously I know I'm here in this house in your country, but since I arrived so unexpectedly I'm not really sure where your country is- other than north and..". She could see she was losing him so she grabbed a bit of pencil and a peace of rather thin white paper that had been left lying on the table by India the night before. It had a series of scribbles on the back which she might investigate later, but the other side was clear and that's what she needed. Starting with the whole of their peninsula and Sri Lanka she quickly sketched out east to Indonesia and China, slowly she filled in as many borders of the various kingdoms as she could manage. When she was done she drew an 'X' over her home and a pair of smiley faces for the twins over the rest of the Delhi Sultanate and turned it around for him to look at.

"Here", she said, pointing at the 'X', "is who I am- Bengal, and this is our mutual friend - he calls himself India now but back then he was one half of the Delhi Sultanate, along with his twin who represents the exact same area …' She could see that she was beginning to lose him.

"I used to be called Gangaridai?" England shook his head. She swallowed her pride.

"The twins are also known as Hindustan?" No recognition. "Bharat?" Nope. She wasn't sure whether she should feel smug at England's blank incomprehension, it was rather nice to know the twins weren't at the center of everyone's lives, but it wasn't actually very helpful right now. Still best move on.

"Um, well I'm asking, where on this map are we? Where is your home England?"

England picked up the map for only a second before saying "North, lots of north," and putting it back down again. This was rather unhelpful, as the sun and the weather had told her that much. She opted for a smile.

"I know, you don't get the sun up this early at the equator, I was more asking where in the North are we? Are we Ilkhanate north or Black sea north?" He looked confused. She was rather worried she'd have to go through every avatar until they hit one she knew-which wouldn't help if he was say, a recluse like Bhutan. Then she had a brainwave.

"Do you remember Rome?". That got a response- England stiffened and scowled, but nodded. She could sympathise with that, she'd only ever heard rumors, but there was no empire to date that wasn't a total arsehole.

"Are you more or less north than Rome?"she said.

"More, and west a bit. Er". For a moment he looked torn, and his hand was promptly buried in his lap. The scowly look was back, but it was paired with an expression like he'd got indigestion, and it took her a moment to figure out what the problem was.

"Do you want this?" she said, offering him the pencil. He shot her a suspicious look, partially hidden under his fringe. She just held it there and tried to look reassuring.

"Please", he said. He still plucked it out of her hand and held it like it was going to be taken away. He stooped over the paper and started to draw and just as she was learning, that, huh, that was much farther northwest than I thought- I didn't know people even went that far, and, I wonder if that's where those incredibly pasty Greeks were from? Midway through Englands explanation that his tiny little island managed to contain himself and his two brothers, Nakula walked in- hair sticking up everywhere. He looked for all the world like he'd been dragged out of bed before sunrise, rather than midmorning.

"Look who's finally decided to show up," she shared a conspiratorial look, or rather tried to, with England. "Actually, what time even is it- seems a bit late even for you brother dearest?" She gave him a smile full of teeth- just because he was helping her now didn't mean she had to be nice about it.

"It's half eight?" he said. Then paused as he realized that that meant nothing to her " It's not nearly as late as you think it is - there's a good thirteen hours till sunset here."

She rolled her eyes and flapped her hand at him. "Whatever, could you go and make us some tea?"

Nakula raised his hands in surrender and went over to the blue counter top to root about in one of the cupboards hanging on the walls. Absentmindedly, she watched him potter about the kitchen, boiling the water heater and fiddling with the cooker, and felt herself relax a little. It was nice, seeing him make breakfast again, nostalgic even. Untill India wandered, barefoot, into the garden.

"AAHH- what the f-"

* * *

India sighed as they bundled out of the car- Bangladesh had practically ignored him, short of laughing when he'd cut himself walking outside. She'd barked two questions, both sharply technical and then stared out the window. England had said nothing, just watching the two of them with naked suspicion. And clearly something had happened there- they were both covered in grass and mud, and the drainpipe was hanging at a funny angle when he'd stepped outside. But both were staying silent.

He sighed in frustration, and locked the car. How was he supposed to care for them if they wouldn't even talk to him? Maybe it was just second day nerves. For a moment he turned and watched the pair as they approached and retreated from the automatic doors, Bangladesh clearly trying to see how many steps she could take before they activated. He grinned, then his phone buzzed.

hey india! how the old man?

India blinked. Honestly he hadn't expected Australia to be awake yet- considering he must've only touched down in the last half hour.

Fine. He's been a bit rambunctious, but hey we expected that. How are you? Normally your asleep- what time even is it there?

cool cool. I'm not home yet - staying over at Germany's place for a bit before doing the rest of my flight

Its *weird* seeing them so small

He could sympathise, they'd never quite been the same all powerful force to him that they had been to the youngest nations but the novelty was still there.

Yes it is a bit

He waited for a moment. When no new message came through he typed another.

How's your end?

Oh?

I'm fine? Nzs weird but its nbd

trying to communicate when you dont share a language is tough

India smiled

Wish I could say the same- but back in MY day, young nations learned many languages

Why I could speak with everyone from Rome to Canton and never once need an interpreter!

GAAK! Wish I never asked! ;)

He felt himself laugh despite himself - the joys of uncleship? responsible adultship? never got old. He kept looking at his phone for a while- Bangladesh yelled at him and he waved at her to tell her he'd be right there. He'd almost put the phone back in his pocket when it buzzed again.

im sorry

?

I..I should have taken him myself

Its not fair to leave him to you again

India breathed out and fought the urge to fill out his 'unlimited' texts with kisses.

I'll be fine.

….

Really?

Really.

"Oi!"

He jumped. England's tiny face scowled back at him.

"She says to get moving lazy bones" He jerked his thumb back to Bangladesh, who'd already started moving between the isles, basket in her arms. He pouted. England sighed like the whole world was against him- like a child.

"Come on, she'll leave us behind." The slight whine, barely perceptible, left him with the strange urge to giggle.

"Ok, ok- you follow her, and I'll be there in a second, ok?" He gave him a smile, which England did not return.

Still when he walked away, India couldn't help but notice that the kid had voluntarily put himself in arms reach, even if he didn't have to. He smiled and looked back down at his phone before firing off his last message.

He's just a child, you know? It's not the same.

I'll be fine.

* * *

India grumbled to himself as he shifted his weight off his cut foot again as Bangl- Bengal gave him a look of contrition as he extracted the shopping list from his coat pocket. Working the breaks on the drive up had not been fun, but standing in front of the shoes in the shop he couldn't help but feel a bit accomplished. Clothes shopping had never been England's forte, and apparently being de-aged did not improve matters. Isles and isles of clothes stretch in every direction. India can not say the same of England's patience.

Shirts

Trousers

Boxers

Socks

Shoes

Jumpers

India scanned the shop for the clothes they needed- hoping they could get through this without any unnecessary drama. Bangladesh stood beside the trolley calmly, and although England was trying to affect a similar nonchalance as he hung onto the side of its wire frame, India could see him hunching over and tensing. He'd seemed excited enough in the car, fidgeting and smiling to himself when he thought India wasn't watching but he'd gradually become more distressed as he'd been presented with more and more things- gravitating closer to the trolly until he was gripping it's wire tightly with one hand. And as England the adult had been so very high strung, and so many things would be new to a medieval mind, India couldn't even say for sure what was upsetting him- it could be almost anything. The lights, sound, overwhelming amount of stuff, automatic doors- any or all of them could be a problem. So despite their success with the shopping, even having managed to grab Bangladesh some spare long-sleeved dresses and leggings to bulk out her luggage, he felt like the shoes should probably their last stop.

Stifling a morsel of worry, he leaned over the side of the cart to give England a winning smile. He tried not to let it droop when England automatically hopped off the trolley bar and leaned back.

"Ok last stop, do you want to go and grab yourself a couple of pairs of shoes? I think you're a size four." England shrugged.

"How about a nice red pair to go with your new shirt, hmm?" he said.

England's grip on the wireframe of the trolley turned his knuckles white, and he shook his head violently. India met Bangladesh's confused look for a moment before turning back to him- he wouldn't have ordinarily pushed it, but England needed at least one pair of shoes that fit. Australia's old pair were almost comically oversized- all the smaller pairs having been worn out by the many successive feet of the Commonwealth near seventy years prior. He gently clicked his tongue while he thought.

"Do you want me to help you choose?" he asked cautiously, tilting his head.

"I'm not a baby!" England shoved the trolley away from himself pretty forcefully, if India hadn't been holding the other side it might have spun into the shelf. India watched him stamp off the furthest end of the shoe rack, where the shoes were clearly too big for him. He sighed, as Bengal chuffed in shock and irritation.

"What's wrong with him, then?" she muttered under her breath, faced scrunched up in frustration. India shrugged, feeling a little helpless, he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't just make the kid angrier. He really didn't want to make a scene.

"No clue, do you have any idea?" He pauses for a moment and then carefully affects the mildest voice he can. "Did… something happen this morning perhaps?"

"Has your Connection..being playing up at all?" Her voice was too light to be anything but affected. He felt his blood run cold, and she looked panicked.

"Not like that! I don't think it's fading- its more like…" She bit her lip and waved her hand a little, "It's more like it's tense- pulled taught." She frowned. "Sorry that's the best I can do - but I know he's having that too, that's why he tried to run away this morning." She looked back at England, India frowned, clicking his tongue and turned to watch England, who was still stamping around- but at least he was in the right section..

"Bangladesh? Is it like that time you went to China?" he said. Her eyes went sharp

"My name's Bengal. But yes- it's much much stronger- but I suppose that makes sense" India breathed a sigh of relief. Bangladesh was still frowning. "He might not be sleeping well- I know I'm not."

India hummed an ascent, the knot in his chest loosened a little- it probably wasn't going to be an immediate risk, but he couldn't help but worry even as he continued to watch England. Back rigid, he picked up a pair of shoes, put them back, picked up another, put them back- each time getting clearly more and more frustrated, slamming them back on the rack, which knocked over more shoes, which then had to be picked up and shoved back - knocking more astray. India watched for a moment, biting the inside of his lip, chest tight with nerves. He didn't want to swoop in, railroad him into just taking something- but he didn't want the scene that would almost certainly result from leaving him to wind himself up either.

Bang- Bengal bit her lip.

"Should.. we do something?" Bengal murmured, voice low and halting. India tried to surreptitiously take a deep breath- given the pinched look that she sent him, he didn't succeed.

"Give him time." She nodded haltingly. Another pair of shoes went tumbling to the floor and England made a small scream of frustration low in the back of his throat.

"On second thought, I best go and calm him down".

He walked over, and carefully relaxed all his muscles- going in angry would be like throwing water on an oil fire.

"Hey", he said in French- best avoid any miscommunication, "are you alright? Those are really nice, but your size is a little way-"

"Shut up!" India blinked down at the child glaring into the shoes.

"Sorry?"

"I said SHUT UP!" The boy was glaring at him now, breathing heavily, face distorted by rage. "You're a LIAR! You're trying to trick me!"

India could feel people turn to stare at them. "Excuse me, ….

"I don't care! You're lying to me! Do you think I'm stupid? It's not FAIR!" India felt his blood run cold England let out a wordles shriek.

Shitshitshit- every part of him seized up involantarily, blood roared in his ears and it was all he could do to avoid flinching. He could feel everyone's eyes on them, prickling on his neck- he could feel the prickle of his brownness too. He felt horribly short of breath, and he could feel the beginnings of a sweat. They're all looking at me- He took a deep breath. Marshalling his voice into the calmest tone he could manage he said.

"Be nice- stop shou-"

"NO! GO AWAY!"

A sharp flush rose up his cheeks, and he tried to keep his voice level. He failed.

"Stop it Arthur- we are trying to help you-"

"Liar" the boys face barely changed but his voice sounded weaker, almost wobbly. "What do you really want?"

India's heart clenched, spotting the telltale flush and crumple that signaled tears in England's face. He'd always hated seeing children cry- and this one, well, was never going to be an exception if he was honest with himself. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he automatically placed his hand on England's shoulder.

"GET OFF ME!" India realled back as England leapt at him- swinging his fists with shocking accuracy, hitting him about the head. He was knocked flat to the ground before Bengal managed to grab him. England squirmed in her hold like a mad thing and kept shouting. Swinging his head round in a panic, he was relieved to see a changing room nearby. Quiet. Secluded. A good place to deal with a small boy who was spinning out of control.

Bengal stared at him in betrayal as he walked away to get the nearest shop assistant.

"I'll be back in a moment!" He said in Old Bengali. He then turned to the shop assistant and said in perfect, affected Oxford English,

"I'm terribly sorry, my nephews not feeling very well- could we use one of your changing rooms?" He felt his breath stop in his chest as she blinked at him in surprise and then looked at England. He almost slumped in relief when she nodded and smiled.

"As long as it's just you and him, you can use the changing room just here-" she pointed to one just inside the door. "Your wife can wait here with me-"

"Thankyou so much!" She blinked at him, and he turned to wave at Bengal. "Sorry, my sister and I, we've only been taking care of him for a little while- I think he's just finding everything a bit much." He knew, logically, he didn't need to explain this- that she had no right to judge- but the words rushed out of him regardless. Something clicked in her eyes, and he saw her shoulders relax.

"It's ok, my brother has something similar- I could give you the times for the shops quiet hour if you like?" He- wasn't entirely sure what that was, if he was honest, he nodded anyway and she handed him a small leaflet from the desk she was at. He smiled and pocketed it. Then he turned back to his charges, who….were not getting any nearer the changing rooms. He let out a small sigh and shot a final grateful look over to the shop assistant before saying.

"I best go over and help before they bring the store down around our ears"

This was easier said than done, all nations were strong and tough, but England seemed to be one part nation to four parts angry wildcat. Bengal was barely hanging on as he tried to duck and squirm away. Barely hanging onto England's hands she yelled at him.

"Where were you? Get over here!"

He sighed, assessed his options and grit his teeth before looping one arm around the boys chest and another around his legs and hoisting him into the air- fully expecting him to freeze when he did so.

"I've been getting us a place he can- WOA-"

England did not freeze. Heedless of the risk of falling he shrieked in anger and kicked out, writhing in such a way that India had to put his legs down to stop him from falling. Keeping his arm wrapped around his chest he caught his head when it came flying back in a headbutt. For a moment India thought they had him.

"You see the hall past the woman in the uniform? There's a room in there we can go to to caaaa-"

All at once England flopped bonelessly, a wrist slipping out of Bengals grip, and his head freed so India could grab both armpits. Luckily India had always been a good wrestler, and got his other arm around his chest before he could slip away completely. He winced as England managed to slap him when he inevitably sprang back to attack- but it didn't take long for Bengal to grab his other wrist in a firm grip. Nodding to each other, India and Bengal then frog marched the kid to the changing room. The attendent flicked them a sympathetic smile as they plonked England down on the seat inside.

"Stay there" India said, before turning back to Bengal. "I'll manage it from here- it's me only so.."

She nodded, looking uncomfortable. "Just make sure he's ok?"

He smiled at her and nodded before heading back into the changing room.

To his surprise England was sitting where he'd been put- but his whole body was tense. Shoulders up around his ears, he scowled fiercely. He could feel anger and frustration bubbling up under his gut, but he took a deep breath and relaxed his facial muscles from tense to carefully neutral. No point throwing petrol on this particular fire.

"England." He said.

The boy peaked up from under his hair and said nothing.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not upset-" England didn't react. "-but I want to understand why you did that."

Silence. India can't help but sigh as a wave of fresh irritation rolls through him.

"What are we going to do with you" he mutters to himself.

"Why are you keeping me here?"

India blinks. The boy is staring up at him- anger and resolve etched all over his face. India stares back and tries to think of an answer that won't just send this whole situation down the toilet. He has to settle.

"I'm sorry?" He says, and England scowls.

"Why did you bring me here? Why don't you just give me back already- I can't give you anything you want" England's voice is sharp and staccato, and his body language is full of presumption. Again the only thing he can say in response feels weak and inadequate.

"We didn't bring you here" He says, and England snorts at him again. India scowls back at him. "And this is your home- your nation, you can't hide that from yourself"

"Don't LIE to me- your friend lied to me." India blinks.

"What." England's smirks triumphantly.

"She said that the house was mine and that my old self made it happen and that we were in my country and that you were going to help…." He trailed off. India could feel that his incredulity was written all over his face, England, even unmoored from time should be able to feel the reality of Bengals statement. But then again, he thought as England seemed to curl up in on himself again, Bengal herself didn't recognise the feeling at first. For a moment the two nations sat in silence, but India felt like he had to check something.

"England, where do you think we are?" He said, a morbid feeling of curiosity creeping over him.

"Oh probably Mongolia or somewhere, it's too wet and North to be Acre or anywhere like that and you're a Musselman or something and Mongolia has a lot of them" His face was shockingly calm as he said this. India, however, had short circuited.

"I'm not Muslim" he said, unhelpfully. Mostly, sort of - he tamped down on the existential crisis that always arrose when he thought about religion too much, and tried to come up with something to explain the situation in an approachable way. He failed.

"It's 2017, England- we're in London"

The boy rolled his eyes, but before he could open his mouth, India interrupted.

"England, feel your Connection?"The boy scowled. But he plowed on, "It feels stretched because your far away in time, not space." The boys face scrunched up. And India felt he had to ask, "England, have you ever heard of time travel before?"

"Wo', like in those fairy stories?" There was something belligerent in his tone now, and his body was slumped in defeat. India tried for a smile, he didn't know how those stories ended, but it seemed they weren't good.

"But this," he said, swirling at England, "can be fixed. If you let us help you."

"Fine." England's voice sounded flat and tired, but his back had snapped back into that unnaturally stiff posture he'd had before- it made India feel tired just looking at him. England stared straight ahead.

"What do we do now?" Not engaging, but not fighting either- India could tell from experience he'd just have to take what he could get.

"We're going to go and pay for your new clothes at the till, and then we'll go get some lunch." He kept his tone deliberately light, but something in England's posture - didn't collapse exactly, the child clearly had all the posture of the adult him, but it did crinkle.

"Arthur," he said, and the boys eyes snapped to give him a hostile stare, "We could stay here a bit longer if you like?" Had dealing with England always been this exhausting?

"I'm fine" England growled, and stormed out past the curtain.

India sighed, seized by a plague of memory, and followed.

* * *

The car was stuffy, all the plastic bags having been shoved in the back seat with England. He had ignored them all when he'd come out of the shop, just shrugging before climbing in the back of the no longer pristine Rolls Royce. India recognised that it wasn't England's usual arrogance- in fact he was more cringing away, as much as his pride would allow. There was no trouble on the way back, both of his charges remained perfectly mannered as Tommy Sandhu nattered over the bridge to the next song. But he couldn't relax- England was unnaturally still, not even twitching his legs as he stared out the window. And whilst Bengal seemed oblivious as she patted her legs gently to the rhythm, India could feel the tension building.

He wasn't going to let it fester.

"England, can I talk to you for a moment, please" Both England and Bengal paused as they opened the doors to get out onto the driveway. "Don't worry you're not in trouble- Sis, if you could put the kettle on for us?" He kept his voice light, and his face clear of worry.

Begal nodded and went inside. England perched on the front seat next to India.

"What's wrong?" England's back had relaxed a little on the drive, but it was ramrod straight now. His only concession to nerves was to fiddle with the little air freshener tied to the cooling vents.

"I was going to ask you that, you seem nervous."

"I already said sorry." It came out harsh and abrasive but again there was that crinkle. Around the eyes mostly. India had had to learn to read pain, sadness, fear and all manner of suppressed negativity in those subtle body changes. It was disturbing to see them in miniature.

But this England was not the adult he'd become, and India made a mental effort to cleave the two apart as he had for his sister. Arthur- his name was another thing that man had never been willing to change- had stopped playing with the air freshener, his hands instead neatly folded on his lap. India opened his mouth, paused and started again.

"I'm sorry Arthur, I didn't mean to say you'd done something wrong. In fact," he said, a sudden bolt of inspiration hitting him, "I'll never punish you without telling you exactly what you're doing wrong first."

Eng-Arthur stared at him in shock. A reflexive burst of pity stung within his stomach before being sharply suppressed. For all their differences he suspected Arthur wouldn't appreciate it anymore than adult England. He continued

"You just seem a bit upset is all?"

Immediately, Arthur's face shut down all emotion- he averted his gaze and became, if anything, even stiffer on the seat.

"It's nothing"

Gently as possible, India replied.

"Arthur, I can't help if I don't know."

After that silence reigned. It grew thicker and heavier, but India knew better than to break it. Soon enough, his patience was rewarded.

"It's nothin'- it doesn't matter" Englands French had taken on that slur it'd had earlier, when he'd been fighting tooth and nail over a pair of shoes. India waited.

"It's just the shop it's - it's" He waved his hands, clearly frustrated, giving India a look like he should just know. "It's just loud,"he finished in a whisper. India waited a moment more, but England had started playing with the air freshener again, emotional bandwidth clearly maxed out from even that declaration.

"Thank you for telling me." He meant it too, part of him had been gearing for another fight, "next time we'll go during the quiet hour ok?" England was deliberately not looking at him, but his frame had relaxed a little, his shoulder rounding into a more natural posture. Without really saying anything, India felt as if a deal had been struck. He smiled.

"Want to come in and get a cup of tea?"

England looked him in the eye and nodded.

* * *

A/N: So a note on characterisation. Banglandesh IRL is made up of aound half of the kingdom traditionally called Bengal, a kingdom that was very powerfull in it's own right and whose people maintained a distinct sense of identity throughout history. Bengal has been home to many respected political, philisophical, and literary greats- and has had several literary and artistic reniesances- soI've ortrayed her here has quiteinterlectual and much less of a fighter. England at the time is war, war, war and more war - so is the reverse :)

I hope them reacting to all the little modern things around them doesn't bother you guys, I just love imagining their faces :') Also I hope this scene was interesting- normally these kinds of stories kind of go in similar ways, so I wanted to take it in a slightly different direction.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Havoc

* * *

Against his own expectations, the peace held. It was tentative and at first they avoid each other, India bracing for a fight, but gradually the distance shrinks at least a little. India cooks and his charges eat- but Arthur stays in the room afterwards and has a cup of tea. When he comes into the lounge, Arthur doesn't immediately vacate. That sort of thing. It's not totally plain sailing, Arthur presents as completely disinterested- an expert in finding something interesting off to the side of any conversation. The garden. A painting. A mote of dust. It makes it frustrating, when they disagree because India can never be sure the boy is listening. But India is an adult and Arthur is still a child, so it's manageable. Predictable even.

Bengal is anything but. Like Arthur he tries to keep her past and present selves separate in his head for all their sakes. But unlike Arthur, her hot and cold routine is alien to him. Perhaps it's because she looks so much like herself, but when India walks in to the kitchen and offers her a cup of tea he's still jarred by her cold shoulder- a restless hmm or snide comment rather than the warmth of a sisterly greeting. Every conversation is a minefield. Awkward silence where there should be playful rebukes. Vicious barbs in friendly jokes. He'd like to put it down to insomnia- which three days in was now clearly habitual for both his charges- but deep in his heart of hearts he knows that's not true. It's not any one thing, but a creeping relialization cued in over three days of caustic looks and false politeness. She hates him.

So with all that, it's easy to forget that it's England he needs to watch out for.

* * *

"FUCK OFF" England's voice cracks with rage. India frowns at the first understandable piece of conversation. Norway had made good on his promise to send his phone number and set up a time for England and his brothers to talk. They'd waited four days. So they could settle in.

"Shouldn't you be in there?" Bengal muttered, looking confused. India shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. It was a family matter. The child should be allowed his privacy.

A dull thump comes through the wall and India jums up from the hard kitchen seat to go to the livingroom to investigate. The day was sunny, shockingly so- but he was stuck inside monitoring a call he couldn't understand, but which seemed to be slipping from bad to worse. When he poked his head round the door it was to see Arthur hopping around on one foot rubbing his toes as he continues his screaming match. India suspects he lost a fight with the wall.

It's only for a second though. England suddenly puts his foot down with his weight evenly spread and stops shouting. India's been spotted, though Arthur doesn't look at him. India's not fooled- the boy's being quieter, not nicer- a concession to the ceasefire. Even in indecipherable early English he can tell that much. He whips his phone out to text Norway - perhaps they should interrupt now before they really blow up- but before he's even unlocked the loading screen he freezes. England is silent.

But Scotland has not stopped talking. And as Arthur's face goes from lobster red to corpse grey, it becomes clear that the boy is not ok. Every sentence coming through the white plastic phone is low and furious. Punctuated by an almost unconscious sway away by England in each sentence. This,he thinks, cannot be allowed to go on.

Suddenly England lets out a scream of high, harsh rage and chucks the phone away. _Bang! _Against the wall. India approaches arm outstretched- England backs away eyes open but darting. Unfocused.

"Hey" he says softly.

"What!" That screech is followed by a deluge of Old English- presumably directed at himself with that rapid murmur. The boy is still pale and breathing heavily - he's hyperventilating.

"Take a deep breath and tell me what's happened." India takes a step forward and Arthur takes one back to match. "It's ok." For a moment Arthur stops and goes ridgid. For a split second India thinks he's gotten through. Then '_oh, he's fainted' _when the boy suddenly falls flat on his face, India only managing to grab him by the tips of his fingers to soften the blow a little. For a moment he is even relieved - horrible as he feels about it. Argument avoided!

Then the fits start.

They start all at once, a faint tremor in the limbs the only warning before Arthur's whole body starts to jerk and flop like a dead fish. As he watches the uncoordinated movements seem to spread into the shoulders, hips and body. Into his neck. His head whacks a few times off the floor before India can grab and turn him so his twitching body is face up. His face is grey and blood leaks out of his nose- even though the floor was carpeted. And India has _no idea what to do. _

"_BENGAL!" _he screams and she comes running but stops short at the doorway, at him kneeling over the tiny spasming body. He can see her face pale.

"What do we do?" he asks, it feels hoarse and his lungs hurt from the amount of air he can't pull in. Her jaw flaps for a moment, helpless.

"I don't know. I don't know - I've seen it happen to humans but-" Her wide eyes meet his and his hit by a horrible reflection of his own ignorance. _But it doesn't happen to us. _"- umm I-"

She babbles rapidly in circles trying to remember what to do. Then a phrase "-should we hold him still? He looks like he's going to get hurt-" jogs something in his memory.

"No." He says. "Pass me that pillow, I'll put it under his head and we'll wait." She looks at him nervously but does as he asks.

India scours the memory again- an aid, a young woman with laughing eyes who'd been epileptic. When she'd come on she'd told him what to do if she had a fit. Number one had been don't move her. Number two was count how long her seizure lasted. Too long and you had to call an ambulance. But how long was too long? And what good was an ambulance for a nation? How ever much they looked it, they weren't human. Their minds and bodys had their own rules.

Still, he counted. Starting from ten.

_Eleven, twelve, thirteen,_

His heart was pumping in his throat as the boy twitched helplessly against his own muscles, Bengal frozen beside him, horribly, totally, helpless in their ignorance. At thirty four he seemed to go limp and stop for a moment, eyelids flickering. India breathed out in relief- only to catch it in shock as the seizure took hold again, all the more brutal for its brief pause. Blood appeared around his lips, caught in his teeth as his jaw suddenly snapped shut like a vice. Bengal let out a small high sound of distress. India kept counting. There was nothing else to do but wait.

Eventually after what felt like an age the boy went lax, muscles stilling and then unwinding, freeing him. They sat with baited breath. But he didn't start twitching again, instead laying down quite as anything. Quiet as the dead. India watched him breathe, almost scared to look away. But gradually he unwound and he heard Bengals halting, frightened breaths even out. _115 seconds. _Almost two minutes. He didn't know what that meant. He'd remember it anyway.

"Could you-" his voice came out thick and horse. He coughed, cleared his throat and tried again, managing to inject a little false calm into it. "Could you fetch me a wipe? Like a wet paper towel?"

He looked at Bengal, who was pale and wide eyed. She nodded and went to the kitchen, returning quickly and handing him the requested item. For the barest moment he let it sit in his palm, the cold water grounding him a little. Then he leant over and wiped the blood away from Arthurs mouth, hands shaking. The boy didn't so much as twitch.

"Let's take him upstairs and put him to bed. If I carry him, could you get the doors?" Bengal nodded as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders and knees, suddenly struck by how small he was. He lifted him. Staggered for a moment with the unexpected weight- for all his thinness the boy was made of muscle- and floppiness before writing himself and taking him upstairs, gently maneuvering too-long legs around corners and doorways. He set him down in bed and tucked him up in the duvet, and again, he looked tiny.

Absentmindedly he swiped Arthur's hair from his eyes and smoothed the sheets.

"What now." He jumped and turned to look at his younger sister. It hadn't really occurred to him how much he had relied on her seemingly endless well of knowledge. Knowledge she didn't have in her current form. Seeing her like this, with no explanation, no theory- scared and on the brink of tears- is painfully alien. He can't afford to think about it.

"We wait." There's nothing else to do.

* * *

The bedroom was deathly quiet- punctuated only by their quiet breathing. Soft covers swallowed Arthur up and made him look even smaller than he really was. She comforted herself with the fact that he was a good colour and breathing well, but the fact remained that he hadn't woken up even forty minutes later. Those fits had looked painful, so perhaps it wasn't surprising he'd slept through all their attempts to wake him, but India was looking from his phone to England with a steadily increasing amount of worry. Probably finding out how terrible this was and what they should do on his 'internet'. And she was sat here, excluded. Ignorant, useless, helpless.

She fucking _hated it. _

"This isn't normal is it?" Her voice has a horrible waver to it, which she hates. India jerks his head to look at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. He might as well have done, for all the use she was. He bites his lip.

"I don't think so. The NHS website says he should've woken up after the seizure stops, and if he doesn't we should call an ambulance." She nods as if she hadn't understood only half of what he just said. But she knows that creatures like them don't suffer from the same ailments as humans- not unless something is going drastically wrong with their people.

"Is there anything politically that could be causing this?" Start with the normal. Work your way out. India frowns.

"Not really. Well there is one thing- a devisive decision, it's got everyone upset. Protests." She sits up. Protests were exactly the sort of thing that might spark a civil war - and a reaction like this would be extreme _but-_

India gives her a shark look. "It's not that though."

"But a prelude to a civil war …" she protests.

"That's not how it works here. Protests are just part of how government works now- look, it just wouldn't cause anything this extreme." Hot anger floods her gut, he's hiding things again. Another thing he thinks she doesn't need to know about- there seem to be a lot of those. But she stifles it down, she's tired, she knows she's not thinking straight. She tries again.

"What does it say could cause it?" her voice measured and reasonable. India looks serious for a moment.

"The only one I can think is relevant is sleep deprivation." Her stomach drops into her feet. "But I think that's only for epileptics so I don't know-"

"It's the curse isn't it?"

The words hang in the air like an ugly great fly, buzzing around their heads. Of course it's the only option left. If it's not biological, and it's not political, it can only be the curse. Whether directly by magic or by magically induced sleep deprivation, it was could only be that. And why England and not her? He was younger, smaller, more vulnerable. Kids, even of their kind, were more sensitive to damage than adults. But it wouldn't stop there. And if it was magical there was no guarantee he'd wake up.

"We shouldn't jump to conclusions." said India, without even looking at her.

"Don't," she growls. He turns to face her "Just stop it. I know it, you know it- don't try and hide this from me like I'm a _child_. You don't get to coddle me and then order me about like it's nothing." A bitter laugh sips past her lips. "I may be seven hundred years out of time, but you're at least a thousand years too late to be pulling that shit. I won't put up with it."

He's staring at her in shock. It just makes her angrier.

"At least try and act like you care about me as an equal!"

For a moment the only sound is her heavy breathing. Despite never having risen her voice above a whisper she feels breathless and her body is wracked with shivers from the effort. India was folded in on himself, looking guilty.

"I-" His voice is halting, and still quiet. He's speaking Latin, which is weird- but maybe it's just habit with the child in the room. "I don't know. I don't know what could happen- or even what the worst could be. If it's the curse you could collapse tomorrow, or next month. Or never. I just don't know."

"Because we haven't investigated it." _I was too busy enjoying myself, _she thinks miserably, _stupid, stupid girl. _

He nods.

"I just, don't understand, sometimes you seem so different and then-" she gestures helplessly. It's not really this situation. It's the whole scenario, it's that she still hasn't spoken to her siblings, and doesn't know why England meant so much to him or why he behaves the way he does. It's his overbearing protection.

She thinks he gets it though, because he leans back against the wall looking sad. No, _melancholy. _

"1300's, huh?" She feels her face twist in confusion. "Ilah Shah? The man who made you-"

"He didn't _make _me do anything!" she said hotly. India sighed.

"Sorry, you're right. The one who helped you rebel against me and _" _Shaha,_she mentally supplied as India waved a hand helplessly. She nodded. He looks relieved and stares at the ceiling. "God. I was such a prick back then."

She blinks in shock and he stares her in the eye. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. You were right, we shouldn't have bossed you about and dismissed you like that. Even if - even if it took a lot for me to admit it the first time round." Suddenly he chuckled. "I'd save a lot of time if I just accepted you were right straight away, huh?"

"Damn straight." But her heart isn't in it. "So does it work? Does Ilah …" She can't bring herself to say it. _Does he die for me? Does he fail? _Bright, serious eyes and a small smile hidden under his beard. Late night board games. _Does it work? _

"Yes. He buys you a few hundred years of independence. Then," India winces. "Then we take over again. Then you're free. And then," almost imperceptibly his eyes flick to the side again and pain clouds his features. "Well. You're free now- you have been for almost 50 years. It was just a very bumpy road to get there."

"Oh." She breathes out, gobsmacked and relieved. "Thankyou." It's her turn to look at the ceiling. It's not like her time under them was the _worst, _she was their precious baby sister after all. And clearly she had so much more to fight. But. A cage was still a cage, and she was relieved to find she'd escape it. Soon even. After a while she says.

"I like you better. This version of you, I mean."

"That's fair."

She giggles wetly. _I've missed you. _The thought makes her eyes finally overflow and start crying.

"Teach me to work the cooker and I'll call it even." It was a pain waiting for him o wake up at sensible o'clock for her and Arthur to have breakfast.

"Ok."

"And the phone." She wasn't going to put off calling her other siblings any longer.

"Done."

"And English." There's a pause.

"You know he can't speak modern English?"

"Not for him, for the locals- if we're going to investigate then we both need to understand what's going on." It's ambitious but she's a fast learner, and well, she's not human. "You should probably teach him too. It's sad, that he can't talk to his people."

"OK." A look of determination suddenly crosses his face. "Sister, I'll help you fix this. I promise"

"Me too." Says England, green eyes open and shining with conviction.

* * *

AN: So this is the totally new chapter I needed to write so that everything else stands a chance of working. Stakes, yay! It's much shorter than the others but this felt like the right place to end it before chapter 4 (which used to be chapter 3) starts.


	4. Chapter 4

Family in Darkness- Chapter 4

The Master Bedroom

* * *

The bedroom was silent aside from the sound of chewing, everyone focused on their task. Bengal had dried her eyes. Arthur was sitting up, though he was tired enough that he let India check his vital signs. India drank in their forms, both pale and determined. Waiting wasn't even a question.

This was how they found themselves standing outside the thick wooden door of England's room- the master bedroom. It was heavy, a remnant, perhaps, from the original bombed out shell of England's Victorian home- although India had no idea why England had been so emphatic about recovering it. Now, standing outside it, it had a palpable menace. Even Bengal, who had been so determined before, seemed hesitant. She kept looking at him in askance, but he found he couldn't make a move on the door. It loomed before him, deeply unforgiving, and utterly foreboding.

Until Arthur rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath and pushed it open. A heavy sounding click proceeded it, a lock needing no key, and in the same moment the spell it had over them vanished. The door, now just a door, revealed a small room with barely enough space for its contents. A single bed with plain cheap sheets, piles of books of all kinds in three of the corners next to tall, mismatched bookshelves. The fourth corner contained the only thing of interest, an elderly desktop with a thick grey monitor and a matching brick of a computer beneath the desk.

It was all a bit anticlimactic really.

"Already it begins." He said to Bengal, as Arthur ignored the pair of them to start leafing through books, making a noise of frustrated disgust when he clearly couldn't read their version of English. Bengal looked serious though.

"Hardly something to be happy about is it, Delhi?" Her voice was taught and worried.

"India," he said instead of pushing his point. She made a flat noise but nodded her head in acknowledgement.

"Whatever, let's find what we can and get this moving."

They started by organising the books by language- the vast majority were modern English, but as Heyer, Rowling, and other fiction authors piled up it was becoming clear that this pile was the least likely to contain anything useful. Next, a smaller pile of Latin texts- mostly reproductions of historicals. Finally a double handful of books in other languages - French, German, there was even '' in its original Urdu. India couldn't help but stare at that one, until Bengal had given him a weird look- like it was obvious that England would have fiction books in an Indian language. Then again, to her, it might be. He put it down again and shook his head to clear it of the temporal culture shock.

As there was noting of interest in the modern English, he let his two charges split the Latin between them and applied himself to the computer. As he booted it up he couldn't help but wonder if England was aiming for security by obsolescence- his personal account wasn't even password protected. Nor was his email account- although divorced from the modern internet providers it was a devil to find. Seeing only messages from government, he closed it- anything useful would be said in person- England's paranoia would dictate it. He opened up the documents folder- numbered not named- and clicked on the first few.

_Enter Password _

_Enter Password _

_Enter Password _

He opened up the rest- five more were password protected. The rest were junk. A half written novel plot. Copy pastes of news articles on petty crime. Nothing else of interest. He sighed and opened up the emails when the squabbling started. It was fast paced- too fast for him to follow with only half an ear. But too slow and stressy to be relegated to background noise- he spun on the swivel chair.

"What's wrong?" he asked in Latin.

The pair stared at him for a moment before looking at each other. Arthur shrugged dismissively and Bengal frowned at him in a way that was distinctly beseeching.

"Bengal? Arthur?"

Arthur said nothing, but Bengal wordlessly handed him a heavy tome in leather so dark it was almost black. Silver lettering sprawled across the cover- Faucium Terrae. Throat of the Earth. He flipped it open- the first four chapters seemed to be on geography, or an early 1900's understanding of it. After that it mostly seemed to be invested in ley lines, a concept that had a ring of familiarity to it, but that honestly India had never really looked into.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" he asked.

Bengal rolled her eyes. "Just read chapter two would you- I'm going to find a spot to pray."

She stood up, not needing to stretch before walking off to perform her daily prayers. His own back twinged with jealousy, but was immediately distracted by Arthur telling him that the book was nonsense.

"Let me have a look at it first ok?" he said mildly.

So he read chapter two. Honestly he hoped it was nonsense. After flicking through the first chapter to understand ley lines- he wanted context for the problem after all, he started on the second. He frowned, along with sections on ley line identification and major British landmarks were diagrams of increasing complexity to 'release and direct spiritual energy'. It didn't really remind him of anything England had ever told him about how he did magic, but he'd never been that interested before. Bengal came back from her mid afternoon prayers and sat down, looking serious.

"Seems you were right," she said.

Flicking through the other chapters, he nodded. He didn't blame her for being stressed- magic was haram in Islam, a corrupting practice that subverted Allah's will and design. He didn't like to ask her to do this, but they both recognised that he couldn't do it alone- apart from anything else, she could speed read like no one else he'd ever known. This was why he wasn't surprised when she told him to turn to chapter 7. Arthur rolled his eyes, but once India had read it he couldn't say he agreed with him. Chapter 7 contained spells- combinations of diagrams and ingredients intended to do everything from heal the sick to cursing your enemies. Several called for blood. Even more concerning was the familiar handwriting in the margins. _Nation blood is an effective substitute for human, although the effects are more unpredictable, _read one. _Many of these arrays are of poor quality- did he perhaps only copy them from elsewhere? _Read another.

The book hit much of what they were looking for- geographic focused magic could conceivably have a strong effect in nations and England had been clearly been reading this book and assessing it's effectiveness. A memory swam up to the surface of his mind- England intruding on a conversation about superstition, claiming that his own were merely pre scientific observations rather than primitive gibberish. He'd mentioned that blood was an amplifier. It'd sounded so absurdly sinister that India had burst out laughing- the ensuing argument had lasted three hours.

So he didn't say anything when England whined that the book was stupid- this far out of time he may not even recognise the black magic for what it was. But as much as he wanted to say they'd found the answer- there was something missing.

"There aren't any transformation or de-aging spells in here."

Bengal sighed.

"I know, I looked- but I think you were right about the culprit," she shuddered, "I suppose I shouldn't be to shocked but I didn't expect to run into black magic _that _quickly"

"Im sorry," he said. It didn't really cover the scale of the problem, but it needed to be said. Bengal shrugged and rubbed her forehead, looking dejected.

"It's not like I didn't expect it- anyway, you can't fix something you don't understand. Know your enemy and you will win a hundred battles, right?"

"Right."He said, his heart sinking.

* * *

They hunted fruitlessly for another hour before India called a break. Going over the same information again and again was making them frustrated, and India would rather rest than deal with another fight. Bengal had wanted to keep going, although she said that Arthur should take a break- the kid having long given up on reading books in favour of flopping onto the modern English pile like it was a bed. However, the kitchen cupboards had had their meager rations exhausted, and if they wanted to restock India had to go now. It worried him though, leaving the kid under Bengals supervision.

All that was washed away when he went outside. The evening air was pleasantly warm, and the bustle of people was a welcome relief to the stuffy isolation of England's room. The walk wasn't long, but the simple distance from his problems helped them recede to the back of his mind. Even if it wasn't one of his own cities, the crush of people making last errands was reassuringly familiar.

His ease lasted all the way to the shop, but left him as he began to pick up the staples they'd need over the next few days. Picking up chicken, milk and potatoes he couldn't help but think of the ingredients in Faucium Terrae- salt and garden herbs alongside human blood and hair. Notes assessing their practicality and appropriate substitutes- the book contained no transformation or translocation spells, but England had been an accomplished magician. Or had liked to think himself one at least. Could England have engineered his own spell from that book? He'd always got the impression that magic was unpredictable and dangerous- but nations were unnaturally hardy. Did that allow for greater experimentation?

But something bothered him about the whole situation, and as he sat glaring at the limited range of herbs and spices it struck him. They had found no other magic books. And no motive. England had been practicing magic for centuries- enough that Arthur felt secure enough to question Faucium Terrae- and yet the only book they'd found could be no older than the 1920's. India remembered seeing the occasional magic book in his room in the 1800s, and England had a hoarder streak a mile wide. Where had they gone? Had they all been burned up when the house had been destroyed in the Blitz? Had England never sought to replace them? Did he just keep all his acquired knowledge in his head? Seemed unlikely.

And, he thought, searching through the condiments, what exactly _was _England's motive? Why replace nations with their childhood selves? This, above all else, scared him. Whilst he could conjure up a scenario in which he could foul up a spell and have it backfire upon himself, the spell itself seemed all at once inconceivably petty and ridiculously convoluted. The only thing he kept circling back to was the vulnerability of the younger nations, flung backwards into their baby sate, their reliance on their caregivers. It gave him a chill even to think it but-

He grabbed his phone and flicked to the number he needed.

"Hallo?"

* * *

Bengal stared at the books in front of her, absentmindedly leafing through a bestiary. They piled up in useless mounds around her, with just one exception. Half exception. It'd been foolish, perhaps to think they would find the answers so quickly- she had never in all her research found the answers first time around. It was disheartening to be surrounded by so much junk though- cookery, history, architecture, almost nothing on how they'd got here or how to get back. She massaged her scalp, the Connection still tugging at her.

And what they had found….

She stared at Faucium Terrae. It looked shockingly normal for such an evil thing, it looked a bit exotic perhaps, but she wouldn't have batted an eyelid if she'd found such a book in her own libraries. That sick feeling of disappointment was still there, that hope she always felt, that nations should do better, should _be _better was taking another battering. Idealism always felt like stupidity at these times, whether dreaming of techno-time travel or basic respect. She shook herself out of such maudlin thoughts, this was the situation they were in- all they could do was act in it.

England was oblivious to her frustration, his face finally back to his normal colour, happily munching on a piece of toast while they drunk their tea. While he drunk his tea. She took a sip of her own and made a face, it'd gone tepid while she sulked. It was her second cup as well. She couldn't deny the fact that even she needed a break, she went downstairs and made herself a third cup of tea, vowing to drink it this time. She settled back down in the master bedroom as she took the first sip.

The child had finished his toast, and was now leafing through the brightly coloured English books, trying to read the back cover before throwing each away in frustration. She could sympathise, brain swimming from spending so much time conversing in one of her third languages. England caught her looking at him.

"What?" he said, scowling at her.

"Nothing," she replied, quickly diverting her eyes. They landed on Faucium Terrae, and she couldn't help but frown herself.

"That's a stupid book, you know," said England. She looked at him. His face had relaxed out of the scowl and into the look of bored irritation that seemed to be his default.

"Really?" She replied, trying not to broadcast the scepticism she felt inside. "What's wrong with it?"

* * *

"Alright, what do you need to know?"

India blinked, he wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected- horror maybe, or at least surprise. But he was pretty sure that flat calm tinged with exasperation wasn't it. Still he was calling Norway for answers.

"Start with the leylines-"

"They're rubbish- human nonsense to try and make sense of high magic areas"

"High magic areas?"

"Magic is everywhere, but it's not spread evenly- some areas have much more than others. Normally only the magic inside you can be moved to make spells, but in a high magic area you can use the landscapes power too- but it's normally not worth it"

"Why? "

"Well you might be able to tap into more, but unless you have the right array to fix it in shape - "

"Array?"

"A drawing or design that traps the magic. If you don't have one then the magic has to channel straight through you to do anything. Can't keep anything going without constant effort either."

"But these high magic areas don't have anything to do with ley lines?"

"Nope"

"So why was England interested in them?"

There was silence down the other end of the phone, and India found himself tapping his foot nervously. He knew, technically, that there was no rush. But the questions hovering over what exactly England had been doing still bothered him.

"Maybe...England likes to experiment- try things out to see if they make something faster or more powerful. You said he'd been looking at the arrays in this book?"

India felt vindicated.

"Yeah, he'd been writing notes next to them" Norway made an agreeable noise.

"Probably that then, he tends to experiment on himself nowadays- and his brothers. It's a good job they're Nations really, experimental magic is really dangerous."

"Is that what you think happened then? Spell gone wrong?"

"..." Norway's silence stretched on, and the small morsel of triumph India felt faded into worry. A quiet '_excuse me' _ got him to move out the way of a woman looking to grab some mayonnaise before he went back to waiting for a reply.

"Hello? Something wrong?"

"If it was an accident… why did it go off in the meeting room?"

* * *

"It's stupid."

Bengal blinked at him in confusion. England sighed and rolled his eyes.

"That maths isn't needed to make it work."

She frowned. "Then what is?"

All at once his demeanor changed- she was really growing sick of that, he kind of stuttered for a moment before falling quiet. Wondering (_hoping_) that magic was as taboo in his land as hers, she attempted to comfort him.

"I'm not going to get you in trouble"

He turned to face her fully, picking up another modern English book and flicking through the pages. His voice switched from flat irritation to a halting, focused tone- like he was trying to give a lecture.

"Magic- it kinda like a river or a fire, it's there already and it'll alter things around it. Strange winds at sea, water that turns you to stone, people vanishing for a hundred years, that kinda stuff. It's in people too." He looks directly at her, green eyes pleading. "That's why you don't need this kind of arabic maths mostly, cause your just moving the magic inside you to make the spell."

"But if you want to know what your magic's gonna do when you move it then you need to shape it with words- or objects." Bengal feels her whole body drawn tight as a bow string, but she doesn't interrupt. "It's I don't know how to describe it, and I don't know if its cause I'm...what I am, but I don't think you can have too many of the words you need in your head at once- especially the long spells." The boy stops and kind of shrinks in on himself, biting his lip, suddenly looking every inch his human age. Despite herself, she feels herself lean forward towards him.

"And?"

"And you can't make something like this happen without a lot of power, and a lot of words."

For a moment silence descends, England staring at her as if he'd just revealed a deep, damning secret, a hard look of triumph on his small face. Bengal stared back, waiting for the reveal. Outside, a bird was chirping.

"So?"

"So who the fuck ever heard of a witch with only one book?"

Bengal leaned back against the wall- picking up a brightly coloured paperback and turning it over in her hands.

"You think these may be in code?"

England blinked at her.

"Um, maybe? But mostly _I _think you wouldn't leave the stuff that said you did it just laying around in your bedroom."

Bengal hmm'd and surveyed the room- wooden floorboards, a thick plump mattress, several hefty looking bookshelves. She felt a grin creep up her face.

"England, you know that big iron pole in the fireplace downstairs?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you go and get it for me?"

The boys jaw dropped open for a moment before stifling what she was pretty sure was a giggle. She smiled back.

"And a knife from the kitchen please- we're going to want to be_ thorough_"

* * *

"I mean, this spell affected multiple nations with a strong transformation - it's not really the kind of effect you can get by accident is it?"

India, who had seen many strange coloured fogs and noxious oozes seep into the master bedroom during his time at England's, was sceptical.

"Isn't it?"

"No, these transformations are too powerful- I checked their thaumaturgical signatures and they're properly set, hardly any flux at all."

There was a moment of silence as India tried to parse what had just been said. After almost a full minute, India gave up.

"And that means?"

"Thaumaturgical signatures are- they're like a fingerprint. Magic has shapes and flows it likes to be in and when you transform someone the magic wants to go back to its old shape - but I tested Denmark and Wales before they went to bed and again in the morning and there was no flux at all."

A sudden, horrible thought invaded India's mind. "Does that mean they're stuck like this?"

"No I'll just need more information about the spell. But more to the point, a spell like that takes a lot of power, and a lot of control," Norways voice had been calm before, even slightly absent minded- but tension seeped in as he kept speaking, "There's no way a spell like that could be completed by accident- and I can't think of any spell like that that could be cast in the middle of a brawl anyway. So he's been experimenting. With combat magic."

India knew it was rude, but he couldn't avoid it.

"Can you think of a reason he might want to do that?"

"The fuck should I know," India blinked, taken aback by the sudden bitterness in Norway's tone, "why does that idiot do anything? Power? Revenge? Boredom? Because a billboard on a bus told him to?" Norway sighed, sounding equal parts exhausted and infuriated.

"Um." India replied.

"Sorry, sorry, not your problem."

_The transformation or Brexit? Cause I'm having to deal with both too you know. _But India suppressed that, unwilling to antagonise the only modern magic user he had available over what amounted to semantics. Instead he pressed on.

"So do you know if England would have done his experiments in the house or not?"

Norway made a thoughtful sound. "Perhaps. He used to use the cellar in his house, but apparently he had to seal it up a few weeks ago. Why I don't know, Scotland didn't tell me much at the time and I never got the story out of England before all this happened."

"So his..workshop? Won't be in his house?"

"Maybe, but wherever it is it'll need to be near by- spells like these take a lot of time to make and if he'd been acting strangely Scotland would have told me. Take into account the standard precautions - non-flammable, warded to prevent magical leaks, and secure…. There can't be that many places it could be."

"Hmm." India replied, mind churning on the problem- but- "Scotland?" He felt he had to ask.

Norway sighed. And when he spoke there was that same tension as before. "Neighbours privileges- he's been warning me everytime he thinks England's going to do something stupid, or just wants to rant." Another sigh accompanied by a rustle that might just have been a shrug. "But what can you do?"

"Yeah. Listen, thankyou Norway - I'll call you later?"

"Send me anything you find, and I should be able to figure out a way to turn them back, ok"

"I will." India hung up, but his mind was already elsewhere, hunting for England's workshop. To him there was little doubt that England had built it in his house, the man was secretive by habit- if he had no suitable spaces he would adapt an existing one. The house itself was clearly built in the image of the old colonial townhouse that had been bombed out in the war and India mentally ran through what he knew of the old rooms. The old 'guest' bedrooms were probably too sentimental- or too useful, with their modern appliances, to be converted. The cellar that was closed was almost certainly the old kitchen/ bombshelter. The drawing room had been changed to the new kitchen.

Suddenly a brainwave hit him, a change unaccounted for, and easily overlooked. Quick as he could he rushed to the till- and was then left bouncing on his heels as he was stuck behind an old lady paying for a months groceries in change, perhaps out of spite. When he was finally served he immediately ran back to the house, long legs sending him flying up through the driveway, dumping the shopping none to gently at the bottom of the stairs before running up them all the way to the master bedroom.

It was pandemonium. Feathers and cotton fluff floated in the air from the ripped up blankets and mattress- the bed frame itself had been taken apart and the floorboards underneath clumsily torn up. The desk and bookshelves had all been ransacked and disassembled, joining the books and the scraps of cloth on the small floor of the room- although the computer monitor was untouched, set aside with incongruous gentleness at the side of the computer _itself _however, was in bits- one side torn open to expose a mess of wires and innards, although it at least seemed to have been spared the battering the desk had endured. One of the walls even had a hole in it, exposing the tattered insulation inside of it- bits floating all around. Vaguely, India thought it was a good thing none of them were human, as the age of the house meant the insulation was almost certainly asbestos.

And standing right in the middle of it all, looking completely unrepentant, were his two charges. Bengal, leaning a long, cast iron poker on one shoulder, gave him a big, unrepentant grin.

"I hope you realise I won't help you clean this up" India said by way of a reply.

She shrugged and gestured to a small pile of books and her feet. "Perhaps I could persuade you with the fruits of our labours?"

He smiled back at her and pulled out the tape measure. "Give me a minuet and then we'll see who has the treasure, sister."

It took a few minutes of measuring, and the best part of an hour of searching for the original plans of the house, before he could be certain.

"This room is much smaller than it should be-" he passed the plans to Bengal and then showed her his measurements. "There's nearly half a meter less space on this side than there should be." He grinned, victory swelling him up with confidence. "And I can't help but notice that this side of the room is untouched by your rampage" he said lightly.

"A Notice-Me-Not spell" England breathed, casting furtive looks that might have been awe at India. India gave him his winning smile.

The wall in question stood unaffected by their searches- a single bookcase dominated it, filled with fiction books. India suspected none of them would be of any use- why hide materials on the bookcase rather than the secret room behind it? Still they removed them to be inspected later- deceptively difficult as all three felt their eyes automatically slip away from it every time they tried to focus. Once all the books were removed, they could see how- a large circle, filled with strange symbols was engraved- perhaps even burned, into the back of the case. Even sliced through by the shelves it was an imposing thing, stretching from the top of the bookcase near the ceiling all the way to the bottom. Even knowing next to nothing about magic, India felt he could say with certainty that this was some serious security. He took a picture and sent it to Norway though. Getting turned into a toad or burned to a crisp because he jumped in without looking not featuring high on his priorities.

Meanwhile, he had dinner to make.

Norway's reply arrived mid-way through. _No traps, just blood warded. Get England to try and open it. _India smiled and texted a quick _Thankyou _back.

The latch to the secret door took far less time to find than India expected. He wondered if England had though that no one would defeat the blood ward/Notice-Me-Not spell or if he simply didn't want to fiddle with complex mechanisms. Either way, it took less than a minuet for little Arthur to find the catch and pull the door open to reveal the secret compartment.

_Jackpot._

The lab had clearly once been a bathroom- the toilet and sink had been ripped out, and the bathroom cabinets had been repurposed as bookshelves and cabinets for ingredients. An old bathtub was still compressed into one corner, warring with the books and bottles of strange pickled things and powders possessing all other spaces. It looked almost forlorn, a lone survivor of a massacre.

But that wasn't what made India grab Arthurs arm to keep him out.

An array dominated the floor. Spanning from the back wall to the door, it was not circular like the others, but an eight pointed star. It contained two circles full of symbols and each of the four long star points contained what looked like a crest or sigil. India was willing to bet that the four would match up to the points on a compass. But what disturbed India the most was its composition. It was dark red and had an unnatural liquid sheen. It looked almost fresh, and despite England not having been in here for days, India was certain it was blood.

They had to proceed with caution. Telling his wards to stand back, India opened his phone and started to take pictures of the array. He carefully tiptoed around the sides, taking care not to disturb the sticky substance. He moved slowly, forensically, taking picture from every angle- along with close ups of as many of the symbols in the central circles as he could. Two silver lines of powder passed through the 'east' and 'west' points of the star. Even from the door, Arthur recognised it as cold iron- India asked how the boy knew.

" 'Cause it's obvious. Duh." he replied.

India asked if there was anything else he recognised- there wasn't. Apparently 'all that maths' in English magic was one of those things that had turned up in the last 700 years, like electric doors and hygiene.

As carefully as possible India removed the books and ingredients without disturbing the array. It was slow going, with only room for one to pass them out from the room. Disturbing to- the empty fist sized bottle labeled _Pig and Nat. blood mix 150: 1 _being only unusual in the collection of pickled plants and bits of animal. By the end it was late evening, and the sun had set- time for bed. He sighed.

"Let's take a look at the books in the morning, I think it's time for bed now"

"No!"

"I want to make a phone call!"

He stared at his charges- they looked worse than he did, barely holding themselves upright from tiredness. But neither looked willing to back down. He decided to pick his battles- Bengal was an adult, if she wanted to be completely knackered, he didn't have the energy to stop her. Arthur by contrast had collapsed not 6 hours ago- he herded Arthur off to bed. He did quite well to, only picking up a single bruise in the process. Afterwards it was a relief that Bengal understood how to work the phone easily enough and allow him to crawl of to bed.

But he took a single notebook with him. For the team.

* * *

yay! plot! now we're back on track I want to thank Queendom of Crows for their wonderfull comment! It makes me feel so hapy to think that my story has bought some new things to the table and been enjoyed, so thankyou.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Dosa: _noun- _A small Indian spiced pancake that the author has never made. Ill informed pastries ahead.

Family in Darkness- Chapter 5

Magicians and Their Magic Words

* * *

He turned the notebook over in his hands. It was plain, a floppy leather bound thing full of barely legible scribbles. Once he'd tucked himself up in a comfy bed it seemed basically harmless, but India recognised England's own handwriting when he'd briefly flipped it open.

Scruffy but meticulous entries marked all things magic related dating back around a year and a half, though the book itself was nearly complete almost half its contents had been written in the last six months. He yawned, jaw cracking, but focused on staving off sleep. He flicked through, landing on the middle of February. On it were six entries in close, spiderweb script :

_05-02 - Four new targets this week. 2 translocations, 1 enchantment, 1 unexpected hailstorm, 30 unexpected frogs. Astonishing versatility, although all events are occuring within high magic areas. Re-assess relevance. _

_15 - 02 - Experiment 10. Achieved rain of one frog with modification 42e. Experimenter collapsed from exhaustion. Alarm protocol activated. _

_16- 02- Modification to alarm protocol, reassignment of emergency alarm to Wales, who is less of a prick. _

_20- 02- Experiment 11. Modification 42g failure. Frog guts glued to ceiling, alterations proposed-_

His body gave out before his determination did- journal falling to the cream carpet with a soft _whumph_.

* * *

The phone seemed to ring for an age before Shaha picked it up.

"Hello? Ra'ana Jinnah speaking?"

"Hello?" Bengals mouth is dry and she runs her hand over the stretchy fabric of her new dress. The phone was made of a strange smooth material with no hard edges, but her grip made it dig in regardless. This feels so uncomfortable, and she's not really sure she should be doing this. Why call Shaha, face of the Delhi Sultanate in her own time? Why not someone nice and uncomplicated- like Bhutan? Why does she do this to herself?

"Bangladesh?" Shaha's voice sounds cautious and closed off- and her accent is also strange. She sounds unlike herself, none of her normal flamboyance or drama. It's so strange, that it takes her a moment to recognise her modern name. Maybe her modern self had Picked A Side? This was a mistake.

"Sorry, Shaha is this a bad time? I co-"

"No! No no no? Sorry I was just… surprised. I wasn't expecting… I'm just surprised." There's a deafening silence between them, it's awful. She feels guilty- she didn't know what had happened but even at their worst they'd had this… fun, sisterly back and forth. Well, mostly. It was illogical but her ignorance of this time felt like it sat between them like a great ugly carcass, poisoning the water of their conversation.

"Look, Shaha. I know.. I know you and India are fighting." She pauses, ready for an interruption that doesn't come. "But I don't care. I don't know what's going on, and I don't want to- not if it's going to drag me into the middle. I just want to be able to talk to you, ok?"

"Ok." Her voice sounds oddly reedy. "What do you want me to call you?"

She breathes a sigh of relief. "Bengal. It's my name, I might as well use it. You?"

"Ra'ani. Or Shaha. Whichever you prefer." It's an oddly cagey answer for her sister, but she doesn't press. Silence descends.

"How are you-" "Are you ok?"

They're words tumble out over each other and suddenly they burst out laughing. The crushing pressure lifts and Bengal slumps onto the sofa. "Sorry, I just haven't spoken to you in a bit."

"I'm fine." There's a small pause, then Shahas voice starts up again, as if she's not used to this. "I mean- things are going fairly well, politics is politics is politics but it's getting better- it's fairly stable so at least I don't feel sick all the time anymore-" Words flow like water, though Bengal can't help notice her sister doesn't blindside her with things she can't understand. It's nice, and for the first time all week she feels like she's talking _to_ someone, rather than past them. She can follow the conversation easily, though that's also the language- she's good at Latin (better than her brother) but it feels very much like a second language. Slipping back into her native tongue is like slipping into a warm bath, and when she needs to respond her answere's come effortlessly.

But after exhausting all avenues of light gossip the conversation turns, inevitably, to her house mates. It starts innocuously,

"I'm glad we can talk. I missed you, while we were fighting." Bengal says. Far from her war and on the other side of the planet, there's no need to treat her sister like an enemy.

"Not our brother?"

She shrugs. "Him too. You know I'm surprised your fighting again- what happened?" Deafening silence, again. She can't seem to go ten minutes without putting her foot in it.

"It's..complicated." Her voice is carefully controlled and light and again Bengal is struck by the difference 700 years can make- in her time there would have been a sharp, casual dismissal or a wild deflection, and she's not sure what to make of this more closed off version of her. Shaha continues, with a biting dry tone. "How are you managing with England?"

Bengal winces. It's a complete diversion, but she recognises a rebuke when she hears it. "Sorry, I didn't realise it was such a sore subject."

"It's just complicated." Shaha's voice softens, "You couldn't have known." Bengal waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't. Rather than letting the conversation slip back into silence, she answers her older sisters other question.

"He's fine. Well. He's a brat- " A sharp intake of breath comes down the line. "-but nothing we can't handle. As long as you don't do anything too quickly around him he'll sit with you quite happily." A small disbelieving noise came down the phone.

"It's true! He's like an oversized alley cat, feed him and give him some space and he'll tolerate you." It's quite funny actually, watching Arthur slink into the kitchen a few minutes after her to collect his toast and tea with a sculpted look of disinterest. _I'm not here for you,_ it says, _you just happen to feed me._ Bengal normally kind of avoids kids- she doesn't _dislike_ them, per say, but they require a lot of attention and get sticky fingers all over her books. England is refreshingly low maintenance. "India hovers over him all the time though, and that makes him tense."

She'd expected her sister to agree, but her voice comes out very serious.

"At least one of you is, just keep your wits about you around him. He's obviously young, but with a man like him, it's better to be safe than sorry ok?"

"Ok?" Bengal says nonplussed. But just as she's about to ask why everyone's treating the kid like a smoking firework, Shaha interupts her.

"I've got to go ok? But Bengal?" Her voice is oddly intense and a little desperate. "If you need anything. Call me. Please."

* * *

_Weightless, floating in the infinite blue sky, Mumbai sprawls out beneath him. It was wispy and small, winding alleys punctuated by grand walkways and palaces. People flowed over every nook and cranny, a riot of colour. Pink, blue, earth-dark orange and phosphorescent greens. _

_He flew closer, light winds blowing him from one rooftop to the next till he drifted to a stop resting on a minaret. A gentle breeze ruffles him as he watches the people dance and cartwheel, crashing into each other with flashes of green and blue light- it makes them take root and bloom. Lily, lotus, jasmine. And a towering rose bush twisting and pushing itself through the throng and up to the sky, blooming orange, white and green. _

"_Beautiful" says England. _

_The blond man is standing behind him. There are no steps but India knows he didn't fly. He could leave any time and England wouldn't be able to follow. England's red kameez flaps in the wind over white trousers. India is not afraid, he tells a joke. England laughs, bright and breezy. _

_India turns back to the rose choked streets as warm arms encircle him from behind. England's face is pressed between his shoulder blades. Wind ruffles his hair. It feels nice. He feels needed. _

"_I love you," says England. _

"_I know."_

_Eventually the riotous colour dims and storm clouds gather on the horizon ugly slabs of grey. "England, I need to go." He tries to disentangle himself but the arms around his middle cinch tight as a vice. "England!"_

_Suddenly, blood and pain. In his stomach. He looks down and sees a sword sticking from his belly. Blood gushes down his legs and coats the floor as Mumbai turns black then crumbles and the sky bleeds away leaving him in a black featureless nothing. England's nails turn to claws, gouging his flesh. Green eyes glowed in the dark. He fell, choking on blood. That voice rang in his ears- now in English. _

_**Why did you think I would ever let you go? **_

India jerked awake, nauseous. The dawn was bright and cold, weak light sliding over the room. He was left panting and shivering in the bed when the shame and humiliation hit. It choked at his throat, along with that feeling of being watched. Of being clung onto so tight it crushed you but still found wanting and the blistering fear of the rages that followed….

It had been years.

And the dreams had been bought on not by living in England's reconstructed house, with a young England yowling at every little thing, but by a notebook. He glanced at it, lying on the floor it looked like little more than a scrap of leather - and it wasn't like it's innards were any more interesting. Instead they seemed totally banal. Utterly pedestrian. His response? Felt utterly stupid.

Unable to go back to sleep he went and washed himself, scrubbing himself almost brutally hard under the freezing cold water from the shower. His head chased itself in circles looking for why he'd dreamt that again after so many years. Decades even. Because he could have a conversation with child England - hell, he could have a conversation with adult England- and feel none the worse for wear. He could sleep in a near replica of the place he was imprisoned with minimal fuss. So why did the notebook a problem? Why couldn't his bastard head just keep it together after so damn long- or at least save it for when he wasn't caring for a pair of vulnerable _children. _

He shut the shower off, panting hard, and he tried to settle his breathing back down, but his head was racing, tripping over itself and coiling around and around and around-

His thoughts chased him all the way downstairs, where they were interrupted at the kitchen door. His charges were up and sat at the table. Both looked like they'd been there awhile. Bengal was nursing a cup of tea while England was slumped over his arms, already looking half asleep. Deja vu hit him, and grounded him- 2018, the curse, small Arthur. Nations were tough, and healed quick, and he seemed none the worse for wear after his fit yesterday. It was a relief, on multiple levels- they were fine. For now.

It was still unsettling to see his sister up so early though. She was normally more of a three-in-the-afternoon kind of person. He knocked on the door.

They jumped. Bengal nearly slopped her tea down herself as she whipped around to look at him before settling right back into a slouch full of carefully affected calm. And Arthur. Snapped to attention like he was on a parade ground, back straight, shoulders back, puffy eyes set in a flower. India sighed and checked the time on the microwave.

6:30 am.

"Do you want some breakfast?" he said instead of swearing.

His charges nodded, one languid, the other sharp and mistrustful. He just busied himself with whipping up batter, making dosas for all three of them- though he left out the chilli and added more ginger to make up for it. The rhythmic motions calmed him. His head emptied out as he focused on seasoning the griddle pan, gradually building up the layers of oil and seasoning. And when he glanced behind him, he wondered if it was catching. Bengal watched him with a sleepy interest and England was slouching- though he snapped back to attention the moment he saw he was being watched. But he let it slide, returning his focus to the food. It didn't take long.

He plonked the dosas down in the middle of the table, still steaming from the pan and started dishing it onto their plates. Arthur looked at it, and then at him.

"Try it." he said, far to familiar with that particular look. Arthur took a bite and swallowed efor talking again.

"Thankyou." India blinked as the boy started shoveling it down, absentmindedly chewing on his own breakfast. Arthur slowed down quickly, to a crawl before glaring at India and stopping completely.

"What."

"Nothing."

"I can be polite!" Englands eye was twitching.

"Never said you couldn't." Just thought it, you know, in general. In the abstract. Don't expect it. Sure it was something that his adult self was scrupulous about now - but that was a recent development. For almost everyone.

Arthur gave him a narrow eyed stare. India looked away.

He really wasn't doing well this morning.

The rest of the meal passed in companionable silence. When mugs were drained, he refilled them. When plates were scraped clean, he piled them high with more food. He even cooked up a second batch when they finished the first. They would never have asked him to, but insomnia makes you ravenous, and seeing life return to their eyes was worth it.

"So what do you want to do now?" He said. There was still a pile of dosa on the table and he mentally filed them away as snacks for later.

"Well we've got those books we found last night. We should start there." Bengal said, looking determined. Honestly, to him she still looked half dead, and he'd hoped she'd take the high road and suggest sleep. Certainly there'd be no way Arthur would try and sleep with both of them up and awake.

"They'll still be there in a few hours," he said gently.

Bengal snorted.

"It's not like we'll be getting any sleep anyway, might as well make ourselves useful- you can have a look at that notebook while we go through those spell books-"

His stomach dropped like it was full of lead. "Actually, I'll join you with the books. Three will be faster than two."

"Huh?"

"I had a look at the notebook last night. It's full of experiments- without knowing what to look for, it won't be useful." And he wouldn't have to look at it. At least until he sorted out his head. The ensuing debate- because there was always going to be one- was short and one sided and ended with him herding both of them upstairs so all three of them could get started. Bengal chastises him for being bossy, but he directs them to start clearing places to sit in the bombsite that is the master bedroom. He's gratified to note that Arthur, at least, listens to him without argument.

That brief flame of triumph is snuffed out when he opens the book he's assigned himself. Spoken Latin from the second century AD is apparently not enough to cope with high level magic texts. Each word makes sense, or looks like it should, only by the end of the sentence he knows no more than when he started. It's like trying to dig a trench with a teaspoon.

He yielded and dug out a dictionary when hs focus started to give him a headache- ignoring Bengal's annoyed glances. Find a word he was unsure of. Check it. Find a word he was unsure of. Check it. Find a word he thought he knew but apparently didn't. Check it. Find that by the end of the sentence he'd forgotten the original translations he'd made and he had to go back to the beginning of the sentence. Fetch a notebook and pen, so he can make notes as he translates. Make a sentence and guess the meaning. Find a word he doesn't know. Repeat.

There two hours in when Bengal loses her patience.

"Look, just-"

"Let's go to the living room, hmm?" He says beatifically, face split from ear to ear with a plastic grin. "It'll be much more comfortable. I'll get some snacks."

Arthur's staring at him like he's grown a second head. India notes with frustration that although he'd been reading squint-eyed with his finger tracing the lines of the text and mouthing along the boy had still got about a chapter in. He'd barely got to the end of the first page. Bengal sighs loud and exasperated before bundling up her books and heading downstairs. Arthur waits until he leaves, and then follows in his shadow. But for all their annoyance India feels like a whale has been lifted of his back when he leaves the master bedroom for the relatively clean and comfy living room.

Of course, this does nothing to help his reading.

"I could cast a translation spell if you want?" muttered Arthur, after an hour. His words hung in the air like a particularly noxious fart as the two adults stared at him- one angry and disbelieving, the other embarrassed beyond belief. The boy sank in on himself, legs folding to press the book he held to his chest and shoulders collapsing in to hide his head like a tortoise. Even his voice shrank.

"I mean, I've not done it in a long time but-"

"NO!" India's disapproval is almost drowned out by Bengal's absolute fury and Arthur, cornered, rocked back for a moment.

"Why not! I can do it!" He shouted, and his body uncoiled from its cower and into an almost crouch.

"That's not the point" India said quickly and levelly to diffuse the situation. From the look on Arthur's face you'd have thought he'd slapped him.

"But I can help." He looked so wounded.

"You could hurt yourself" He said, hoping affection would mollify the child. Instead, he just looks insulted.

"I won't-"

"You shouldn't be doing magic anyway, it's not right." Annnd trust his sister to put her foot not just on the trigger but straight through it, eyes flashing and a grim expression on her face. He could have screamed at her for her misaimed protectiveness. Utter conviction. Zero consideration. Arthur's face twitches and for a split second he thinks he sees despair, and then he blinks it away and his face contorted with rage.

"I- you- I'm only trying to help!" The boy chucks the book on the floor with a heavy _THUNK _and springs up, towering over them for a split second with his fists clenched before storming off upstairs. India can hear the _thumpthumpthump_ of his footsteps as he races away. They mirror the thump of his racing heart.

Trying to get his breathing under control he glares at Bengal - only to be met with an equally powerful glare back. As if this is _his_ fault.

"Do you want to go after him or shall I? Wait-" he says before she can interrupt, "- I'll do it. We don't want him to actually run away."

She flinches and a little guilt coils in him, but he's up and marching out the room before it gets him to apologize. He flies back up the steps, but he can hear that Arthur has headed for the top of the house- his heavy footsteps make dust float down from the ceiling. India pauses for a moment and tries to think about how to approach this. It wasn't his first rodeo. Australia in particular sprung to mind - a child with a massive heart and equally massive holes in his memory where his native population should have been. His mood had been equally erratic, and when he'd been overwhelmed or upset it'd been best to leave him to calm himself. But he'd been tied to the house by a sense of love for England- his 'father'. Arthur. Little England. Wasn't.

India was not foolish enough to think that the temporary ceasefire he'd achieved on Friday would be a substitute for that kind of bond. So he took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

The first thing he noticed was the dust. It coated everything- tables, carpet, railing, stairs, in a thick, gritty grey blanket that muffled his footsteps. It was so thick that India could easily see that Arthur had gone round the corner by the footprints on the carpet and handprints along the banister. The rest of the house was by no means spotless, and had relaxed a little since his confinement 71 years ago, but this was jarring. The England he knew hated mess and disorder of all kinds and if he couldn't bully you into cleaning it he'd spend all night on his hands and knees bringing it up to standard. Even in his seemingly more relaxed modern form….this felt wrong.

Suddenly there was silence. Arthurs footsteps stopped and India peeked around the corner. He stood the far corner, staring straight at him with a carefully constructed look of disinterest. It was spoiled by the waver in his voice.

"You gonna yell at me again?"

"No."

"You better not. If you do, I'll hit you." India stifled a sigh even as his cowardly heart picked up a beat. The echoes of the man who would become the Empire are already present in this kid, and he can see them overlapping. It makes his skin crawl. He consciously relaxes his body, keeps it non-confrontational, waiting for the boys anger to burn itself out. He notes the little things- the dust motes, the fretful crumples around the boys eyes, the fact that by some unspoken rule they've both slipped back into French. It helps. And after what feels like an age, the boys shoulders slump.

"I was only trying to help," he mumbled, staring at the floor.

"I know" It's said without heat.

" Of course you do," a half hearted sneer, quickly dropped. "Why're you angry with me then?"

"I wasn't. I was worried." The boys eyes flash with anger and he hunches in on himself as he shouts.

"What. Did you think I'd try and hurt you-"

"No. I thought you'd hurt yourself." Silence. Arthurs stare is wide and disbelieving, and his hands are shaking. India's just trying to keep his cool, so maybe he's coming out too cold, so he tries again. "You've already been placed under a powerful spell that we don't know how to lift. Arthur, who knows how trying to cast another might affect you-"

"-Translation spells aren't dangerous!"

"Under normal circumstances!" He cuts of Arthurs' whine, and tries to ignore how vulnerable the boy now looks with his eyes that wide. "This isn't normal circumstances. If something went wrong-" It costs him something to say this, but Arthur deserves to know. "-If something went wrong there's no way to know if we could fix it. If anyone could fix it."

The boy just stares at him, wide eyed and gawping like a fish. And then he regains composure, closing of his facial expression and refusing to look him in the eye.

"Who cares." His voice is quiet and flat. "It's not like I can _die_."

"That's not the po-"

"Anyway you can't say Bengal ain't angry. She doesn't even know anything about it and she hates it. Bitch."

A cold pit of frustration opens up in his stomach. "Don't say that."

"Why? 'Cause it's true? She hates it and it's not good enough for her. Bitch."

"Arthur" He says, anger leaking through into his voice despite himself. The boy shows his teeth somewhere between a smile and a grimace, he knows he's got under his skin, and India can see what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth.

"And? You can't stop me saying it! She's a bitch! A stupid bitch! A great h-"

"THAT'S ENOUGH"

Arthur's face pales immediately and flinches, back straightening out into that wooden, military posture again. India takes deep breaths to try and get his temper back under control, so the fight doesn't come to blows. Or Arthur faints. One of the two. It takes a minute.

By the time he's regained his composure- enough that he won't start yelling like that again- Arthurs gone from grey to chalky white. He's holding himself unnaturally stiff and carefully tilted to the side, like he's ready to defend himself. After a moment the boy nods meekly, a jerky, halting motion that makes India feel like actual shit. Except. He couldn't have the boy saying those kinds of things- it's not right. But he's not sure what to do now. He can't send the kid back to the living room- it'll only start another fight. But at the same time he's hesitant to punish him more since shouting so clearly terrified him.

"Do. Do you want me to go to my room?" India blinks. That wavery voice sounds strange coming from this kid, and he notes with a vague feeling of concern that he'd slipped back to a formal 'you'. But he wasn't sure what to do with it.

"Yes, if you could." Is what slips out instead of...something. 'Are you going to apologize' maybe? Are you done being a brat? Maybe even, are you ok? But England pushes past him and is down the stairs before he can take it back and… he supposes it's better that way. More normal for the child. He watches him go for a moment, then his phone bleeps.

_Hey. The array you found is a summoning array. Powerfull, but completely harmless unless you use magic to activate it._

_I don't think it's related. _

India stares at his phone for a moment before really registering that Norway was explaining that creepy sign in England's lab. It feels like an age since they found it, though it was only yesterday evening.

_Why not?_ He replies, having to work quite hard to get his fingers to work properly. He started to walk down the stairs - out of the dust and into the clean, bright landing beneath.

_Too large. I'd have noticed if he'd drawn it out on the meeting room floor. And it's the wrong thing, transformations don't need gating runes_

_...?_

_The compass points. They help fix position for all involved_

_makes summoning really easy to spot _

India bit his lip, leaning against the wooden railing. To him 'summoning' sounded like the exact kind of thing time travel might be based on. But what did he know? Still he quickly types out a reply.

_You don't think it's a summoning? _

…

_No. Why would I? _

India typed out the sensations his charges had been having, placing particular emphasis on Bengals 'stretched' feeling. It felt strange- had Norway not asked his own wards? But then again maybe Denmark was the type to hide his problems. Scotland and Ireland certainly were.

_And?_

India furrowed his brow, feeling distinctly annoyed. It took a moment to form his reply.

_What if they were summoned across time rather than space? When you get into it, they're basically the same thing._

The reply was instant.

_No._

_I'm sorry. Why? _Maybe his irritation bled through because the next reply was slower, taking almost a full five minutes. Or maybe he was wrangling Scotland. It'd be nice to know he wasn't the only one struggling.

_I'm sorry but time travels just not possible. The array you saw was to summon a fairly small creature across dimensions in the same time. no one has ever successfully summoned across time before and it take so much energy it might as well be impossible. we just don't have enough information atm to say how he did it_

India stared at the phone as guilt coiled in his stomach. Maybe it was stubbornness, but he hadn't told Norway about the journal because if he had then the nation would want to know what it said. It was bad enough knowing himself that he was avoiding it, but telling others would be worse. Technically he supposed he could send it to him. But that would be it, an admission of failure. He mulled the information around in his head, trying to find a loophole. But he didn't know much about magic, so what could he say?

He takes a brief moment to press his ear to the door of Arthur's room, just to make sure he's in there, and then pads downstairs to do it all again. Quietly he sits on the bottom steps to compose himself. He doesn't like this, he'd much rather deflect with a joke and smooth things over. He takes a moment to enjoy the hall, bright light streams through the glass at the top of the door and over the riot of clothes and shoes on the rack. It makes him smile a bit to see that England's shoes are just as all over the place as their own. He wonders if they're rubbing off on him. He also wonders if he could stay here rather than have a what is going to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of his life.

As a rule, he kind of hates telling people how to do religion. There's so many different faiths inside him held so strongly that it was just better to stay out of it. But. They need to be able to get along long enough to fix this. Even if she was sort of right.

"How is he?" India jumps, lost in thought. Bengal is leaning against the door frame fidgeting with her orange headscarf.

"He's in his room," he says by way of a non-answer. She gives him a look.

"I think he's ok. He hates being shouted at." She has the grace to look contrite.

"I didn't think he'd react so strongly." He smiled, if young England overlapping with the Empire made his skin crawl, then it was a relief to see the overlap between Bengal and Bangladesh. Never had the feeling of having a 'baby' sister been so apt. "I'll apologise for shouting at him."

India gave her side eye. "Not for telling him he can't use magic?" She snorts.

"Hypocrite. I won't sit by and let him screw his own soul over, he's a _child_." India blinks, there's not much he can say to that.

" It's what he's used to" His voice is blank, neither approved nor disproving. Her eyes turn hard and he braces himself for a fight.

"And?" For a moment they stare at each other, then she deflates, taking a deep breath and forcibly calming herself. She looks dead on her feet from exhaustion. "I don't like this, but I won't use magic to undo this if I can help it. And I won't use his_._"

India bites his lip, but he can't ignore the elephant in the room. "And what if there's no other way?"

"My people will always come first, but.." She looks like hell. " I'll endure. For as long as I can."

They sit silently in the hallway, neither moving from their position. India can hear the birds chirping outside but it doesn't touch him or the icy lump of guilt and worry in his gut. He looks away and watches the dust motes shining in the air. _Maybe I should give this place a clean. _

"I just wish we knew what was happening." It was said mostly to herself, India only just caught it. But apparently 'shit' was the feeling of the day. The last couple of hours played in his head, him being difficult, refusing to acknowledge his own weaknesses, causing fights. He felt sick. And seeing Bengal having to face down the possibility that there may be no good answer for her, no way to keep to her religion and her safety- made it worse. It was only a notebook.

"I'll read it tonight," he says quietly, staring at the carpet. "I don't want you, either of you, getting hurt to obtain what we need." He looks up, Bengal is giving him a distinctly worried look and he wonders how bad he must look. He musters up a smile. "It's my responsibility."

"I...Are you sure?" This time he puts some effort into his smile.

"What, you think your big brother can't handle a little notebook? I'll be fine."

* * *

"I'll be fine." Bengal looks at him. His hair is mussed from rumpling it to many times and his eyes are droopy from tiredness. She suspects his smile is fake too, but he is skilled at faking his emotions, so she can't be sure. "I still expect you to apologize to Arthur."

She sighs and slopes her way up the stairs, shoulders heavy as iron. She dislikes apologizing when she couldn't have know she was doing wrong. It feels like a trap. But standing outside of Arthur's door she can admit to herself she also hates being tongue tied. It's an unfamiliar sensation, and she kind of hates the uncertainty of it. Eventually though, she just has to start.

"Arthur!" She knocks on the door. There's no answer. She knocks again, as bad as this feels she thinks it should at least be face to face. "Arthur? Can I talk to you?" The silence persists.

Her stomach twists and she's bombarded with images of the room empty, the kid having decided to leg it- getting lost, getting hurt. He might technically be England, but the future was a foreign country. She grabs the door handle, her head is fuzzy with sleepiness and she nearly faceplants the door when it doesn't open like she expects. It actually does give a bit, a sliver of room becoming visible before the door sticky with a screech of wood on wood. He must have jammed a chair under the door.

"Arthur! England!" Her throat burning and she's hammering on the door. "Are you in there? Arthur-"

"_What." _

She breathes a sigh of relief and rests her head on the door. He's not thrown himself out the window at least. "Sorry for yelling at you earlier." She doesn't get a reply. "Are you ok?"

"...I'm fine."

Again she finds herself staring at the door in the middle of a hostile silence. It's a very plain door, boring to look at. She looks at the carpet instead- it's not much of an improvement. "Try and get some sleep yeah?" Her neck heats up with embarrassment. Try to get some sleep. _Try to get some sleep? _What was she, his Aunty?

"Whatever." Thankfully, the conversation died after that and she didn't have to deal with the emotions. What was it she said to Shaha? That he was like a cat? Low maintenance. She breathes a sigh of relief and goes to take her own advice.

She can't.

Even in the half light of her room, her body won't relax. Between the fight and the fear of Arthur running away and that painfully uncomfortable apology, she's buzzing. Every bone in her body hurts and her mind is spinning, but she's gone all the way through tiredness and out the other side. Despite knowing she needs sleep, she's manic. And of course, that ever present grating stress of the overstretched connection sawing its way through her guts every time her mind drifts for a second.

She can't stop picking at her nais. Her legs won't stop twitching every time she doses off, waking her after a millisecond of sleep. But at the same time she's confused enough that she forgets what she's doing midway through anything- she goes to get a drink and forgets halfway down the corridor, then goes back to bed. Instead, brain at idle, she dwells on her sleeplessness, and wants to cry. Lying on the bed trapped in the waking world, the future presses down like a pillow over her face. She endures it for as long as she can. Three hours. Then she just has to go back.

"Why do you do it?" She's standing outside England's door again. It's boring to look at, so she's brought a small pad of paper with her and is writing notes in a half dreaming state. "Magic?"

He's so silent that for a while she thinks he must have finally fallen asleep, and she's talking to herself. Then he whispers, full of anger.

"Excuse me?"

She jots down a few more things: _fits? _And _fear. _She's sure now that Arthurs discomfort earlier today was in the magic itself, not just reaching out to help her brother. And this spell is already doing harm, nibbling away at their insides, making sleep impossible. She tries to imagine a man so stuck in it that he'd volunteer to do it under those circumstances. She tries to imagine a boy who would. She slides down to sit on the floor.

"You knew it could hurt you, and you're Christian right?" She _thinks _so anyway, he mostly prays out of sight in the morning, and he blasphemes with Jesus.

"I already said I wouldn't do it again- what more does he want to know?" he growls. "Tell him to ask me himself if he wants to know."

A flare of irritation in her chest and her lips purse, "I'm asking for myself! He has nothing to do with this."

"Jesus Christ, _fine. _Yes I know magic will condemn my immortal soul to hell, if I have one _blah bla_h I repent. " He's breathing heavily and she can hear him holding back a shout. "Happy now!"

She rolls her eyes, as if that answers anything. "Yes, right. So why would you offer?"

"I WAS TRYING TO HELP!"

"Oi! Everything alright up there?" She freezes as India's voice blasts up from downstairs. England goes quiet. She realises that as an adult and an independent nation she can act however she wants, but a substantial part of her still doesn't want to upset her brother- or get Arthur into more trouble.

"Yes!" They chorus. It's surprising that Arthur joins, but she guesses he is still in his room. Where he is supposed to be calming down. Dammit.

"Sorry." It's quiet. She's gone about this all wrong, and whilst she holds her beliefs close to her heart, she can also feel some empathy for this kid. But, well, she'd kind of expected him to have the same views she did. People of the Book were alike in so many ways, and uncomfortable as it was to admit to herself, she liked this kid. Maybe it was only because they were both wracked with insomnia, and maybe he had grown up to be a deeply unpleasant person. But. She looks at her notes. _No evidence_ stares back up at her.

"I didn't come here to fight, I'm just confused." She pauses, searching for a way to say this, because it hadn't come out right the first time. "You're a clever kid, so why would you do something you know is wrong? Something you knew could hurt you?"

"-I _told _you-" He jumps on her words, but she cuts him off sharply.

"And if you had to kill someone to help would you do it?"

Ugly silence. Bengal can feel her heart beating in her ears, every nerve ending straining to hear his response. She can't even articulate why this matters- 700 years is a long time, and her brother can be dramatic but he would never, _never _fake a reaction just to incriminate someone. He sincerely believes England did this. But. _No evidence. _

Eventually he answers.

"...not for you, no." Something unravels in her heart- he wouldn't hurt someone just because it'd give a ...what even were they?...friends? Associate? Wouldn't hurt someone just because it would help them. But that's not enough. She taps her notebook and asks before she can forget again.

"And you wouldn't do it for any other reason- magic, I mean," she clarifies. The answer is quicker this time, and quieter.

"no." Her whole body relaxes and her head falls against the wood of the door with a soft thump.

"Good. That's good." The boy just grunts in reply in a smal, non committed sort of way.

She stays there for a moment, staring at the carpet and th small gap beneath the door. Sadly, she realizes this isn't actually that different from having a conversation with the kid normally. Hard, unresponsive front with a small sliver of access where you can talk genuinely. And randomly you get shouted at. Maybe it's just sleep deprivation. But given the way he folds up into himself when he thinks no one's watching… she doesn't think so.

Bengal isn't blind. She knows she can be difficult to get along with- while most people like poetry and literature, she is, even by her own standards, obsessed. And when it comes to 'dull' mechanical topics, she can talk for hours. And people always butted in to divert her when she started to talk about politics. She was obsessed with justice, and on freedom. She hated hypocrisy- and was incapable of keeping it to herself. She liked to think that this was just the way her people shone through her. She loved them.

But there was one thing she hated, which she knew was all her own. Fake emotions. Hidden thoughts. The future was scary enough without having to play mind games when ever you even spoke to someone. Low maintenance. Hah.

She lies down on the floor and stares at the gap at the bottom of the door. Her body is too tired to do anything but notepad rustles as she fiddles with it. After a moment she murmurs.

"England." It's his name after all. "Do you want to play noughts and crosses?" She's not sure what she's expecting, but she dreamily draws up a grid and places a cross in the center anyway.

"Alright." The boys voice is quiet, but calm. She slides the paper under the door, and waits for a reply.

* * *

This is how India finds her: sprawled like a cat in the hallway, headscarf askew, and a small piece of paper covered in noughts and crosses pushed just clear of the door. He pick it up and snorts- 5 all - and places it gently back down. Asleep he can see how young she really is, round faced and soft, barely an adult. Opening England's door, he sees Bengals mirror- a tiny boy slumped against the wall, snoring gently- sleep robbing his baby face of all menace. He carefully places his duvet over him, and goes to fetch a pillow and blanket for Bengal.

After all, they had no choice but to rely on him.

* * *

"Shaha."

"Mhmm?"

"I don't think he did it."


	6. Chapter 6

Family in Darkness- Chapter 6

Knowing (This) Like I Do

Begal jerked awake at the thump as India chucked the diary at the kitchen wall. He groaned and grasped his head in his hands. Tentatively, England poked his head round the door. _Don't worry, _she mouthed, _I'll deal with it. _

To be honest, even with her head foggy, she'd expected it. The last two days he'd not been himself, jittery and forlorn when he thought no one was looking. Falsely chipper when they were. Even England had noticed, and since India was too wrapped up in his own head to notice, she'd been the one who kept him calm.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

India grunted in reply, not even gesturing to the book laying forlornly on the floor. Sighing she made him a cup of tea. It was much harder than it should have been.

Get mug. Get spoon. Get tea bag. Stare at the tap in confusion before turning it the other way. Thoughts bobbed in and out of her mind, barely surfacing before being swallowed back into the depths of her exhausted fugue. Still she managed. India grabbed the tea gratefully, and slurped it down. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his shoulders were stooped from tiredness. She couldn't blame him, her back was no better and she couldn't blame it all on the spell, days of reading useless books would do that to you. Of course, India had yet to realise that crucial bit of information.

_He didn't do it. _

This thought beat a little rhythm at the edge of her thoughts - blaring into prominence after every finished book. She was sure she had hinted at it the day they'd argued. But still they focused on the books, and the diary especially. Of course if you accepted her premise…

_England's magic is not the cause_

...Then all their work was for nothing. And both her and the child were getting worse. Not dramatically perhaps- there'd been no more fits, though the boys hands sometimes trembled. But in small ways. Her focus, normally obsessive, was flighty. Her reactions were slow and sluggish. And her thoughts were a mess.

Still. She looked at her brother curled around his nearly empty tea cup. It wasn't steaming anymore- she looked at the time- one of the things he'd taught her about this new world- an hour. An hour had passed her by without her noticing. She shook her head and re-focused. Her brother. She watched him go over and pick up the diary and flick back to the beginning. There was only one conclusion.

_He doesn't know what he's doing. We've gotten stuck. _

She sits there and tries to think. Rearrange the pieces in a way that makes sense. If not England then who? Or what? And most definitely, _how?_ Whatever it was needed time, and power to do this. That couldn't leave too many people in the frame. But however she twisted it she couldn't see any more clues. Did they even need them?

She blinked.

"Brother", she said, he _hmm-_ed and looked up from his reading.

"Is there a mosque in this city?"

The mosque shined with inner light. Outside it was a plain brick thing, similar to the shops that squatted either side of it. But inside the walls were painted white and caught and reflected every mote of light that seeped through the small windows until the whole place was bathed in a warm white glow. Gently she rubbed her feet in the soft green carpet, grounding herself. At the entrance the boys rest- England fidgeting nervously as India naps in the chair.

A deep voice interrupts her.

She blinks and turns to the man who just spoke. Kind brown eyes peek out from bushy red eyebrows, and his leathery brown skin crumples into a smile. He's wearing plain clothes and an aura of gracious curiosity at her scrutiny.

"Sorry I didn't catch that," she says in Arabic after a while. The Imams eyebrows shoot up for a moment.

"Do not worry about it, it's not everyday I get to exercise my classic Arabic," he chuckles. "What brings you here, young one?"

"I've been forced 700 years into a future by an unknown curse and seek your guidance." To his credit he only blinks once.

"It was green," she adds.

"Ah?" he says. "Might I inquire as to when this- curse- was applied?"

"Just over a week ago?"

"And have you been experiencing some stress before this occurred?" His eyes have softened from confusion to compassion.

She thinks of the rebellion and the twins, the constant feeling of tension and desperation. "Yes," she admits, "But what's that got to do with anything?"

The imam nods like he expected this. "Have you considered talking to your doctor about these feelings?" She feels a hot flush spread across her cheeks.

"I'm not mad!"

He puts his hands up placatingly. "I never said you were-"

"Yes you did!" Bengal jumped and looked down. England was standing slightly behind her, arms crossed, like a little bodyguard. She looked at him in shock. Her eyes trailed downwards, specifically down to his feet.

"Take your shoes off!"

England blinked at her.

"What?"

"Do you see anyone else wearing shoes? Take them off and stack them on that rack over there." For a moment he just stares at her. "Now please." The boy gives her a forlorn look before sloping off to do as she says.

She hears a chuckle behind her and whips around to look at the imam, who is failing to hide a smile behind his hand. Her face feels like its about to burn off from embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, he just doesn't-"

The red bearded man waves it off. "It's alright, it takes time to learn these things. When did you take him in?"

She blinks, she didn't really take him in, they were simply housemates- all be it separated by substantial gulf in development. Still, she supposed to a human, they would look like mother and child.

"About a week ago." He winces.

"Big changes then? Have you got anyone to help you?" His voice is soft and his eyes are kind. Bengal finds she can't meet them. She looks down and twists her fingers instead.

"My brother." As much as he _could_ help.

The silence yawned out in front of her. Compulsively, she tries to fill it. "It's just….not how it's meant to be." She blushes, her stomach coils. "I mean- I'm trying, I was hoping- things would be different. I was trying to make things different. But it turns out that it's not going to work, I'm going to fight the same battles over and over again. Even if I survive- I don't know if I can-"

Her voice chokes off and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder, grounding her. She takes a moment, she breathes. He lets her compose herself before speaking. Miserably she reflects how silly it is, unloading to someone who thinks she's crazy. But this glittering future with it's cars and antibiotics and computers- it's wearing on her. It's wearing on her not knowing what to do or how to act. It's wearing on her to watch the boy and watch herself just waiting for a seizure. It's killing her to watch her brother lose sleep over it. But in the back of her mind the worst is that she now knows, bone deep that when she goes home, her victory will be fleeting. That it'll vanish, like ash in the wind, and she will have to fight again, and again, and again. And for the first time, she doesn't want to know more.

In the face of everything it feels small, and selfish. But it's got a sharp grip behind her lungs, and the fear hurts. She doesn't want to have to fight forever.

"It sounds like this is a very stressful time for you. I know you won't like to hear this, but perhaps you should consider talking to your doctor, before consulting me. Treatments have come a long way since I was in practice-"

"She's still not mad." England was glaring at the imam, looking for all the world like he wanted to thump him. Unconsciously she put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, but shot her an apologetic look. Then a thought that had niggled at her finally floated to the surface:

"Wait, you speak Arabic?"

"You didn't know?"

"Who speaks Arabic?" India stretched and yawned as he unfurled from his chair.

"I do." said England.

"Really," India paused. "Why?"

Bengal rolled her eyes and turned back to the imam, who looked quite concerned, drowning out England's- _" 'cause of Crusading in the Holy Land, __**obviously,**__"_ with her own, 

"Thankyou, but unless doctors have a treatment for curses I think you will have more luck with this." She winces as India continues to talk to England - _"but why would you need to know?"- "'Cause I'd be a shit bodyguard if I didn't?" -_

"Don't worry about them, they're always like this." The Imam turns back to her and raises his eyebrows. "What can you tell me about anti-curses?"

His face turns somber. "I can only repeat what I have already said, please, I implore you to seek medical advice first. Whilst magic can be the cause for many distressing events, the problems are far more often medical rather than magical." Gently, he places a hand on her shoulder. It rests there heavily, like a warmed brick. "If it's any comfort, your not the only one whose come to me with these concerns. In these uncertain times many seek greater explanations for their pain, why a young man recently came to me to request my help with a house fire he said was caused by a haunting!"

India froze mid sentence, "Wait, realy?"

The imam blinked, "...yes? I mean the man was in shock, grieving, his house had just burnt down- praise be to God, his shop wasn't destroyed too." 

"Is he prone to delusions, the man, I mean?"

The imam began to lean away, brow creasing in confusion. "No, he always struck me as very sensible, a miracle considering- well, considering." At this point his voice dwindled to a worried murmur, aware that his words maybe weren't landing in the right ears. Firmly, Bengal shrugged his hand off her shoulder, and stepped away. He gave her a forlorn, pleading look, but before he could reach out to her India jumped in. "And you said there were others? More than usual?"

She stepped back, stomach churning like it had a monsoon inside. England followed, shooting her nervous looks. Head spinning, she took the seat her brother had vacated, tuning out England hovering by her side- _didn't he say he was a bodyguard?_\- to cover her eyes and wait for the world to stop shaking.

After a moment she peeped between her lashes. She'd planned to pray. She'd planned to do a lot of things actually.

"England," she murmured, "could you pick me up a Quran from the shelf over there and bring it to me?" She was sure India had mentioned they gave out free copies in the car. It'd stuck with her, not only for the convenience but for the luxury, to have enough to give them away so freely. But she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Again, she peeped through her eyelids. England stared back. He blushed.

"Just because I can speak it doesn't mean I can read it or nothing! You gotta tell me what it looks like!"

"It's the one with the green cover, there's a whole pile of them on top of that shelf."

He nods and walks off with a forced and unnatural nonchalance. She wondered if he'd forgotten that they were free here. Probably. She suspected that it should be worrying, that he'd steal for them after knowing them only a few days, but she was too tired to feel much of anything. Except dizzy. She felt lots of that.

"-I mean I admit it was strange, the same green light and strange smells, but he'd just come off a nightshift, the eyes can play tricks on you in the dark-" 

She closed her eyes again, thoughts fading in and out as her brother and the imam continued to talk in low, worried tones. She sat there, floating at the edge of consciousness rolling a plan in her head. It was crazy, probably stupid, but…

She jumped. England flinched for a half-second and drew his hand away from her shoulder, before shoving a small green book at her chest. She looked at it and blinked. A Quran. Yes. Good. She tucked it into her coat.

"Thankyou," she said.

England's eyes widened in shock. They always did, she noticed, when someone treated him with a pinch of respect.

"Wait. Are you saying these things are connected? Somebody is _preying_ on my community?"

"I..perhaps." Then India turns to her eyes full of fire. "But first I have to check something."

India flew up the stairs, not even kicking his shoes off before taking them two at a time. He hurtled across the landing, swinging himself around the doorframe into the ruined master bedroom.

"What is it?" cried Bengal from downstairs. He collapsed to his knees and started hunting through the junk, papers flying everywhere.

"The fire!"

"What fire?" she panted from the top of the stairs. England was already at the doorway, barely breathing and hovering nervously behind him.

"The one the imam talked about. I've read about it somewhere before!" He pulled out a pile of newspapers - all nationals- unlikely to report on a strange house fire, especially one that didn't even endanger the building it was in. He discarded them just as Bengal entered the room and leant against the wall.

"Do you want us to help?" she said. He swung his vision around, books, books, Financial Times, books.

"I think it was on the computer actually," he muttered.

"That's the thing you were reading when we first came in wasn't it?" he blinked in surprise.

"You remember it?"

"Yeah, sure, just give me a moment." She picked her way across the mountains of splinters and paper, grabbed something with both hands and passed him-

The monitor.

"Ah," said India, staring at the great grey box with a carefully neutral expression, "Thankyou. Did you perhaps also see another box over there? Black? Made of metal?" A horrible thought crosses his mind. "Possibly full of wires?"

His heart sinks at their stricken faces and gradually the pair of them root through the detritus. After a few false starts, England, cringing, presents the computer to him.

What was left of it, anyway.

One side of it was wrenched open, and wires spilled out of the component-less casing, leaving it a husk of its former self. Even the fan had been removed. For a moment he despaired. Internally. It wasn't their fault. Then he took a deep breath and looked at where England had picked it up. There lay much of the rest- the motherboard, CPU, disk drive. And as he picked them up and turned them over in his hands he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been disassembled, not smashed.

After some more searching he found most of the remaining components- only the fan was destroyed beyond repair. It was cracked clean down the middle, likely an accident. He sighed. It was frustrating, but manageable.

"Sorry," said Bengal, looking sheepish. Behind her, England shuffled from foot to foot. They both looked exhausted.

"Don't worry. You couldn't have known, and I can fix this." He waves the motherboard at the rest of the computer. "You guys try and get some sleep." He looked at the wreckage. "This might take a while."

"I KNEW IT!"

Bengal jerks awake, head spinning. It takes a moment to coordinate her limbs, but she still manages to scramble to to India's room, England sneaking up behind her, yawning. Her brother had thrown himself backwards, hands in the air, surrounded by junk. The grey com- no- _monitor, _was flickering slightly but showed pages of big bold titles in English. A white fan blew on the wiring of th actual computer, whose left side was still exposed. India grinned.

"I was right. I knew I'd heard of that fire before." He tapped the glass with a responding _plink! _"Right here. Green flames, written down here as wiring gone wrong."

She blinks at him.

"Whuh?"

He ignores her. "England- not you, older you- was collecting news articles. Petty vandalism, arson that sort of thing- all over the city, no particular pattern, I thought it was nothing. Until I talked to the Imam. Three of the incidents here were brought to him by concerned members of the public who suspected magic was behind it and _England_-" he raises the black notebook "-was certain of it." 

"All these incidents are in here. Some are marked as being false alarms. But the rest? He's recorded and attempted to replicate them." He opened up the book right it the middle."Like, listen to this- fifth of February-" He rattles of a translation of the entries, but her head is still trying process the last section. So she interrupts.

"Sorry, what?"

He sighs. "Ok, from the beginning-"

In the end, it takes three tries to explain it to her. It's unconscionable, even England starts to give her a funny look. But her head is still swimming from sleep deprivation, she could honestly just drop where she stands. But she feels she gets it. A thought swims up from the depths.

"See, I told you he didn't do it."

India's eyes widened in shock and confusion.

"Eh."

For a moment they just looked at each other equally bewildered. Then, a memory. _Shit. I told Shahadeva didn't I?_ She feels herself flush in embarrassment.

"Um. Older England. I don't think he did it. He doesn't have any of the stuff." She pauses for a moment as her brother looks at her in stunned disbelief. "I thought I told you?"

"No you didn't." He says flatly. She rallies though.

"Well now, we know he was investigating…"

"Yeah, and whoever got them got us last week!" England piped up. She nods, but India still loks uncertain.

"...Perhaps," he says.

She sighs, she's tired and she's confused but this makes sense to her. "Look. I know he did something to you, and it still hurts. But that doesn't mean he did this. For the last two days we've been going round in circles. If your going to help, you need to _let it go._"

She knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His face falls, then hardens, and he folds his arms.

"I'm so sorry for my concern-" his voice is cold "- you'd think being the only one whose met the man in question, lived with him, _survived_ him, would know. But apparently not."

She flinches. _Stupid mouth._ "I didn't mean it like that-"

"Perhaps I should just make some dinner hmm? Since that's all I'm _good for_." Then he rose and swept past her, furious. She stood stock still until he was gone before flopping onto his bed and cradling her head in her hands.

"Can..Can I go to my room now?" She glanced at England, surprised. His eyes flicked from her to the door India had left through. She sighed.

"Yeah, try and get some rest." He gives her a brief withering look, which ok. Fair. "Or look through some of the research, maybe there's something we missed." He nods and makes for the door. He pauses in the doorway, and for a moment he opens his mouth as if to ask something, but then he closes it, and leaves.

Finally on her own, she groans. _What was she thinking? _She _knew_ older England was a sore topic, she knew the boy had grown up into- someone bad, dangerous, even. To bring it up like that and throw it in his face. And he was still suspicious. Still dabbled in dark magic. A suspect. Maybe he teamed up with someone. Maybe he hid the evidence better. India didn't make that sort of reaction up. _And you just threw it straight in his face. Moron. _She hated this, it was like she wasn't even in control of her own mouth anymore.

It couldn't go on.

Quietly she took the Quran out of her pocket, flipped it open, and began to read.

She leaves it an hour before shuffling into the kitchen. India's not cooking, instead his nose is buried in that dratted diary, and he's scowling. She sneaks around to boil the kettle and root around in the cupboard. Only when armed with tea and cake does she sit down at the table with him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean what I said." she says, setting them down in front of him. For a moment she thinks he'll reject it, but then he takes a sip of tea.

"It's fine. Not like you know any better yet." She flinches. "If you hadn't said it you'd still be thinking it."

The silence is somehow even more awkward with the sun streaming through the window, birds chirping happily. Bengal fidgets with the end of her scarf, trying to muddle her thoughts into coherent words. India sips his tea.

"It's still not fair to you though, I knew it was sensitive and I still said it." He gives her a Look. "I'm sorry!" Her voice becomes low and halting. "I just can't see how that boy could become someone so…" She waves her hand helplessly. _So able to hurt you. _All her life the twins had been this dominant, overwhelming force, able to whether wars and disease and migrations that would have killed lesser immortals. The idea that a tiny island nation- _this _tiny island nation could cause such harm was….

India sighed, and finally looked at her. He looked so old. "You've seen him through a tantrum though."

"...yeah," she says, "he's a sleep deprived thirteen year old."

India laughs, softly and bitterly. "Imagine that but cunning. And with guns."

"...What's a gun?"

"Swords then." He rubs his forehead and takes a bite of cake, as she tries to contemplate that. She can't.

"How long?" she asks, staring at her lap. He puts his cake down. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to! Sorry I'm babbling-"

"200 years"

"Oh."

"Yeah." He sighs and takes another bite of cake while she tries to digest that piece of information. Eventually he pulls the diary close. "However, while I was sulking I did find something useful. He taps an entry in February. "The family who were affected by the fire are Arjun and Ishaar Thakur. And Arjun's shop is right round the corner from us."

The shop wasn't very busy to India's eyes, which perhaps had something to do with the burnt out husk of the flat above. On the one hand, the fire clearly hadn't been that severe as the shop was still open. But its black and empty windows glowered down at the street in a way that was, quite frankly, menacing. A little alarm went off as he opened the door and the three of them piled in. A half a minute later, India slapped a bag of nuts on the counter.

"Just this today, mate?" said Arjun. He looked much like his profile picture, though he was taller than India had expected. A big, barrel chested man, he hunched, like he was afraid of taking up to much space, bushy black beard touching his chest as he looked down at India. He looked tired, but his smile seemed very natural, considering he was still working just below the burned out shell of his flat.

"Actually, Mr Thakur." The man frowned. "I was wondering if I could ask you about the fire upstairs."

"What about it?" His eyes where creased in confusion.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Immediately, Arjuns body language closes down and he rings up the nuts."

"Wiring failure." He says flatly. "Unusually bad, the police said they'd be able to tell us more when they've completed their investigation." The last words are said with a hint of scorn. Arjun clearly didn't believe a word of it

"Is it?," And here India took a deep breath, aware that the next sentence was going to make him sound like a madman. "Not magic?" Arjun paused, before looking him in the eye.

"What makes you say that, stranger?"

"Vihaan. And it's the green flames," says India, pushing across a printout of the news article. Arjun picks it up, then sighs before pushing it back to them.

"Look, I've already got someone looking into it -"

"Arthur Kirkland right?" says India. Arjun blinks and gives him a suspicious look, and India continues before he can interrupt. "He's missing."

The lie came easily, almost as soon as he'd started retracing Arthurs steps he'd realised that he'd need a cover story. He was going to talk to who he talked to, go where he went, in order to get inside his head. If he didn't want to come across as a deranged stalker, he'd need a cover story that couldn't be verified. He'd practiced it in the car all the way up. It was barely even a lie, really.

Arjun's gentle face morphed into shock and horror. India softened his gaze, and tried to look beseeching. "I was hoping you could help."

"Why haven't you gone to the police, I could tell them what I know-"

India tapped the news article still sitting on the counter. "We both know that won't help."

Arjun frowned. The sharp beep of the door signaled more customers entering the building, a group of laughing teenagers, who immediately gravitated to the drinks fridge by the counter. Then the man sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Meg! Can you take over from here!" he shouted. A muffled _"sure," _ came from the back room, swiftly followed by a lanky redhead with angry red acne all over her face. "You going for the rest of the day?"

"Yeah, you wouldn't mind closing up for me would you?" A bored shrug. "You're a star." He turned back to them and beckoned them out the door, before asking.

"Who are you to Arthur anyway?" India's mouth went dry, and his stomach swooped uncomfortably.

"A friend," He croaked, lie souring on his tongue.

"Mum! Ishaar! I'm home." Arjun yells as he lets them into the house. A lean man with a white button up t-shirt and a neatly trimmed beard comes down the stairs to meet them.

"Hey, I wasn't expecting you back so early, everything ok?" He says with a remarkably deep voice and gives Arjun a quick kiss. He turns to India, who's hopping about on one leg, taking his shoes off. "Who's this?"

"Vihaan. He works with Arthur."

The man looks the three of them over. "Family business?"

India jerks his thumb behind him, to Arthur. "He's the family, I'm the business. We work together." He nods before looking at the other two questioningly. "Hazarika and Arthur." He says, gesturing to each in turn. "I'm afraid my sister doesn't speak much English. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the fire." 

"Arthur's missing." Supplies Arjun, beseechingly. His husband nods before turning to them again.

"Well, it's nice to meet you anyway. Shame it couldn't be under better circumstances. Do you want to come through?"

As he walks through the house he can see that nothing in it sits straight. Piles of books and blankets sit crookedly on every surface, mashed next to wonky and occasionally cracked nick-nacks, glued together with some kind of glitter glue. Pictures hang at odd angles on the walls. With the exception of three- Arjun and Ishaars' graduation photos, and them in bejeweled and brightly coloured sherwani for their wedding. It looked warm. It looked lived in.

And when they entered the living room there was a full spread of cakes, biscuits and tea waiting on the table. Arjun scratches the back of his neck and chuckles awkwardly.

"Thanks mum!" he calls into the kitchen, a dark hand with an emerald ring waves him off. He turns to them. "She always goes a little overboard when we have visitors, don't worry."

They settle themselves down on the two overstuffed sofas that had somehow been squeezed in the modest room and pour themselves some tea. On one was India, flanked by his two charges. The other, Arjun and Ishaar- Ishaar gently leaning on his husband. Arjuns mum- Padma, the records had said- looked on from the kitchen.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"What do you already know?"

He draws out the black book from his trouser pocket, "Only what's in here"

"Arjun nods. "Yeah. Can I have a look at that." India hands it over, and Arjun opens it to the right page and whistles. "Hey look Ishaan, he wasn't kidding. I'm amazed you managed to find us with the information here. It's pretty sparse."

India shrugs, of course England had avoided identifying features, he'd been a spy for over a hundred years. "It took a while."

Arjun nods. "I was just curious, 'cause this didn't really start with the fire." He open the book to another page- fifth of January, and hands it back.

"It'd been going on for a few months. Things going missing, windows and picture frames cracking in the middle of the night. They'd come in spates, one week we'd get loads and then we'd be fine. At first we just thought it was just unlucky." Arjun paused and took a sip of tea. "Then a goat was teleported into the bedroom."

India blinked. "A goat?" 

"Arjun nodded emphatically. "I know right? One minute I'm fast asleep and the next I'm being trodden on by this mangy creature that's screaming it's head off. Though-" He smiles and nudges his husband, "- I still think he had better morning breath than you."

Ishaan rolls his eyes. "Fuck off."

Arjun snickers, then continues. "Still, waking up with a goat in your bed and your husband outside in the street is a bit beyond a bit of bad luck. So I started looking for people who knew about magic."

"Including Imam Abdullah?" He nods. India takes a sip of tea

"Arthur was the only one who offered to help without seeming like a massive scam artist. He comes in to get milk every Saturday at 11.30 without fail. So it was just luck that he overheard me whinging to one of my mates really." Arjun pauses, and give him a funny look as he chokes. "He was really good, actually. Very professional. Didn't want paying though."

"Seems he's actually a sensible person when he's sober." India gives Ishaan a questioning look. "I'm an A&E nurse in the local hospital, he turns up drunk at least once a month only to abscond the moment he's out of sight. We just roll with it at this point."

"..Sounds like Arthur to me." Little England looks up from where he's picking apart a piece of cake. "Not you." he clarifies in French.

Their hosts give him an odd look. "..His mum's French."

Arjun nods and continues his story. "Well we thought that was it for a while- Arthur said he was off to do his own investigation and nothing else happened and that, we thought, was that. Then the fire happened."

"It-" Arjun's mouth opens, then shuts and opens again, his face going pale. "I was in bed that night. The fire alarm didn't go off." His face is pale and he puts his tea down quickly to avoid spilling it. Ishaan pulls him close for a side hug, heedless of his audience. A hot coil of guilt and jealousy coils in India's stomach. He still has to ask though.

"I'm sorry," he lowers his voice to a soft murmur, like he's coaxing an animal out, "anything you can tell us would be helpful, but take your time." He looks at Ishaan, who gives him an uncomfortable shrug.

Arjun takes a deep breath. "Don't worry I already had to tell the police and Arthur. I can do it again. Ishaan- doesn't remember much about that night. I'll get to that part last though ok?"

"We'd both gone to bed early, it'd been a long day and we were knackered. But the next thing I know." Again he pauses, wide eyed. "It- it was like it was in January. But the goat this time, it was completely silent and nearly frozen- I only woke up because it stepped on me. That- that probably saved my life. The room was already full of smoke, and when I opened the door it was boiling hot and I could see this green fire creeping up the wall. I picked up the goat and ran."

Suddenly Arjun took a big gulp of tea. "When I got outside I could see the flames leaping out the windows of the box room- Ish uses it as a study so I thought-" he shakes his head. "But there's nothing in there that would burn green. The weird thing was I wasn't scared- it was like someone else had grabbed my body and was moving me about. I called the fire brigade and the police. And then I started looking for Ishaan. I couldn't find him, that's when I started to panic."

Ishaan grimaced, visibly wincing, as Arjun suddenly squeezed his hand for comfort. "I got lucky there- as soon as I set the goat down it ran off into the alley. A minute later out comes Ishaan."

India feels his eyebrows shoot up. "You mean-?"

"He was turned into a goat this time?" Arjun nods. "That's why he doesn't remember much, according to Arthur memory loss is pretty normal if you get transformed like that."

India nods. "And, err, what else did Arthur say?"

"Not much, he just looked very serious and asked us a bunch of questions about the night before but he said they didn't help much?" India's heart sank, but then Ishaan poke his husband.

"Actually they're was one thing." He turns to India. "We'd taken a bunch of photos of these 'arrays' to document what was happening, and after the fire." He blushed. "I snuck inside the police cordon and took some photos of my own."

India stared at him in were so many ways that could have gone wrong it wasn't even funny. DNA, arrest, being charged with arson, tampering with evidence…

"I know, I know!" said the nurse hurriedly, "but the police had finished their investigation- I checked! It was just for safety reasons." Arjun gave him an extremely tired look. "Which doesn't make it better I know! But look at this-"

He whips out his phone and shows him a photo. It's a room. Blackened and full of the melted and burnt detritus, it's hard to tell what it might once have been. The wallpaper has been burned away in many places leaving exposed brick and insulation. Sunlight spills in from the hole where the roof used to be. For a moment it's hard to see what he's meant to be looking at, everything is so damaged. Then Bengal gasps, and points. In the center of the far wall are four lines that might once have been straight, burned and sooty against a ruined backdrop. They go straight through the wallpaper and leave lines on the brick beneath. The center is obliterated. A halo of unshaped soot. But if India was a betting man, he'd bet on two concentric circles, filled with strange runes.

A summoning array.

"What did Arthur have to say about this?" India said it slowly, a million possibilities whirling through his mind. Arthur researching an intervention and fouling it up. Arthur researching the previous problems for his own gain and fowling it up. Or worse, getting it right. _Combat magic. _India had no idea if summoning normally caused fire, only that fire seemed to be exactly the sort of thing combat magic might want to produce. Chilling thoughts mingled with memories- drawing on them and giving them teeth. Famines caused by carelessness. Why not fire? Countries undermined from within. Why not a house? A nation slowly back sliding to the bad old days-

"He frowned and looked very serious, then put a blocking rune on the four corners of our building," Arjun flicks to a picture on his phone. A wheel like symbol in white paint sat at the bottom of the wall. The outside looked kind of celtic to India's untrained eye but the spokes looked like nothing less than a bundle of spiney forks. Vaguely he wondered if England was back on the psychedelics. It'd explain a lot. "We were a bit sceptical at first but the building hasn't had any problems in the last couple of months, so it must be working."

India carefully doesn't let his mouth fall open in shock. The England he knew would rarely help without a catch.

"Could you send me those photos?" His voice is shockingly normal. Perhaps it was unfair- England could be reasonable, even principled at to a strange timetable known only to himself. But India had learned the hard way that even people he saw as special-

"Yeah, sure." Said Arjun.

\- even those he made _feel _special, were disposable. You didn't know why, even if you thought you knew when. These men did not know England. No one did.

Apart from him. Maybe.

She dipped in and out, dreams a kind of half waking hallucination- frightening visions of battle fields, then green flashes, then fire, then tentacles multiplied and refracted into lines and geometric shapes, to a refracted face of an unholy creature. Punctuated by wakefull paralysis, eyes darting a second before sinking back down. Falling, falling. Disorienting images flicking by mundane and mangled corpses side by side. Chased by monsters. Eventually she lifted a hand like lead and pinched herself. Heart pounding, sanity returned with wakefulness.

She'd collapsed on the sofa. By the time they had got home, Bengal could feel herself slipping in and out of sleep. She barely badgered the pictures out of him. The sun was still high in the sky. Did that mean she'd barely slept? Or was the day truly that long? She had no way to tell- time in this country didn't seem to run properly at all. Her phone buzzed. She jumped.

Her brother had been kind enough to change the settings to Arabic,as the Bengali setting had been illegible. It still was, mostly. But she found the messaging service eventually. It was Pakistan. .

_16.00_

_Hey I think you fell asleep while we were chatting. _

_Or you accidentally hung up again. I'll send you the stuff. _

_17.45_

_Are you alright? _

No, no she wasn't. But she wouldn't say it. Typing was hard. She managed though. Pakistan didn't respond. Probably dealing with her boss? Or maybe sleeping. Apparently that was a thing people still did. She fought the urge to laugh hysterically.

Instead she clicked on the photos folder. Then closed it, because apparently that was actually the camrat? She opened a few more till she found the proper one. She flicked through the Thakurs photos. They were mostly small stuff. Some looked like summoning circles, but others were squares or little overlapping triangles. She couldn't make sense of them, though some looked familiar. She knew India would have sent that to Norway. She flicked through anyway. Again and again she came back to the same picture.

It was their bedroom. Fifth of January. Post goat. Cool blue walls oversaw a ransacked room. Clothes and knick-knacks were strewn everywhere and the bed had been half stripped. The duvet looked wrecked, covered in dark smears. She was also fairly sure the goat had widdled all over it. Ew. nothing had escaped unscathed. It took her a moment to realise that there was no array.

_Maybe they didn't notice? _She dismissed the thought. They'd taken pictures of every other one they'd found, if they'd seen it they'd have a photo. And they'd had to fix the whole room, maybe even replace stuff- the duvet and bed looked especially battered. The duvet even had those strong brown lines that probably wouldn't wash out-

_Wait. _She blinked. Shook her head and looked again, closer. Then she went and pinched a duvet cover and a marker.

Because those brown marks weren't shit.

_They were burns. _

It took a lot of experimenting, toggling between the Ishaan and Arjun's photo of the room. It was no wonder no one had opened out the blanket, it really was spoiled as well as burned- goats were messy. And when she was done it was incomplete. But a great compass point, spokes wound with vine-like swirls stared back at her. And it had been burned straight into the blanket. That wasn't prepared. That was spontaneous.

She stumbled over to the wall phone, grabbed the piece of paper beneath it and did the only thing that might help.

She messaged Norway.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: First Blood

"The little bastards burned it!"

India nods as Bill continued angrily about the vandals who had damaged his wall a month ago. At first glance Bill screamed 'pub owner', and then screamed it on the second and third glances just to make sure you had got the message. He was big, pinky-white, and bald as the proverbial egg. He was only five foot two, but made up for it in tattoos. "If you see them again send them straight to me and I'll sort them out."

India nods along and quietly strokes his fingers against the chilly surface of a beer. Non-alcoholic. England scowled at his orange juice. It wasn't really adorable that the child expected to be served alcoholic drinks, but he was medieval in his outlook. Literally. Bill gives the boy a funny look.

"He just wants to drink what I do." India takes a sip. It tasted more or less like the real thing.

Bill chuckles. "Chancer."

The pub was very English. The Dog and Duck had sat on the same site since Tudor times - and looked it. Heavy, dark wood paneling gave it a closed in feeling, and the furniture was so old that even years after the ban, it still smelled of cigarette smoke. The drinks had been somewhat updated, but still tended towards dark stouts and tooth rotting, brain-smashing ciders. As a concession to the times, it also served a spirits and a strawberry daiquiri that might have, if you were lucky, seen a strawberry at some point in its creation.

India takes another sip of his not-beer. "Can I have a look?"

Bill shrugs. "Sure, bring your beer and we'll have a look now if you like."

Just as they were getting up, a small hand grabs his sleeve. Suddenly, he remembers that England needs a translator.

"We're going to see the damage, you can wait here or come with." England hops off the stool and follows him, grabbing his juice as he does, and they leave through the small passage to the back of the pub.

"What happened?" he says, clearly bored.

"I'm not sure yet, older you marked that the owner had a problem with vandals. Fire, goats, property damage, similar to the last people we saw." Many things about the Thakurs experience still bugged him, from Arthur's convenient arrival to the sudden change in spell effect. Perhaps Norway was right and it really was a transformation. He took a glance at England, and his shocked look as he sips the orange juice. He suddenly took a large gulp of the sweet liquid, and India suppresses a small smile. Stunning work, if it was. One of a kind, probably.

The thought didn't sit easily.

"Here we go!" Bill threw open the door to the bin area and shoves the recycling skip out of the way. Behind it was a four pointed star array. Again. India gives a low hiss.

"I know right?" Bill plants his hands on his hips with a big sigh. "No idea what they used- welding torches maybe? But blow me I don't know any welding torches that could do _that _to solid bloody brick."

Indeed, the star-shaped array wasn't burnt onto the wall but melted straight into it. India walks up to it and (carefully) sticks his finger inside. It is narrow, so he has to wiggle a little, but he hit the back when his finger was in halfway. He turns to look at his young assistant, who shrugs.

"It's a high magic area?" England suggests. "Like the other house?"

"Hmm." India rubs the soot on his fingers. The four pointed star and the concentric circles were crisp and graceful- whoever had done this hadn't struggled at all. But what kind of welding torch could do that?

"So what do you think? There can't be that many people with the kit for this can there?" Bill had rolled up his sleeves, revealing the small black semi-colon on the inside of his wrist. "The CCTV's on the blink- useless hunk of junk- so I don't have any video or anything."

Just as India was about to answer, his phone buzzes.

_When did you give your sister my number? _

India blinks

_For that matter when did she learn to use a phone?_

_Tell her I don't speak Bengali_

_I can't even google translate it ffs. Her dialect is too different_

A small 'typing' icon bobs irritably at the bottom of the screen. India heads it off.

_Send it to me? _

_Please? _

It takes a moment, then a series of long paragraphs fill the screen, typed out in profoundly misspelled Bengali. Or rather, misspelled modern Bengali- but the worst was the sentence structure, which had fallen apart under the pressure of sleep deprivation. India tried to read it fast, but large chunks were incomprehensible. She'd found something in one of the Thakurs pictures, something they'd overlooked- the blanket was burned, a spontaneous array rather than one laid down and triggered, and -

And-

India felt his stomach drop and his heart race, face developing the funny tingling nearly pins and needles of a panic attack. His hands shake. He tries to suppress it, throw up his face of normality- eyes like_ this_, mouth like _that _-

"Hey are you alright-?"

India's eyes snap back to the pub owner - whose face is much nearer than before. Bill reaches out to hold his arm- then yelps as England kicks his shins.

"England!" It comes out harsher than he meant, and Arthur jumps. He tries to soften his voice, but it is ruined by him panting like he's run a marathon. "Stop it!."

Both boy and man look visibly worried as they frog march him back into the pub and pour him into booth.

His head is spinning- being in close proximity to the kid isn't helping. He's swamped by feelings he thought long buried - piercing fear, uncertainty, and on its heels, acutely aware of where and when he was - guilt. His hearing muffles and his vision blurs. Then a glass of water is shoved into his narrow circle of vision.

It's odd, he doesn't remember putting his beer down.

"Drink some of that, ok? Take your time." Bill says, and he wraps India's hand around the glass. The cold hits his fuzzy head like a hammer, providing an anchor into reality and a focus point. He takes a gulp that makes his teeth hurt and feels the cold slink down into his stomach, livening up his deadened nerves all the way through.

"Hey! Sip it! You could choke- take your time!" A little hand shoves him aggressively in the arm. He barely represses a flinch. A sharp reproach in English. A confused murmur, then a clear voice. "Come on snap out of it! What's wrong?" The childish-ness of the voice itself is a relief in many ways.

Bill cuts him off. "Just sit quietly, take your time, ok? I'll bring you another water." His voice is firm and sounds reassuringly in control. Somehow Bill's discourage England from bothering him, impressive, considering they don't speak the same boy doesn't try to push him again. Instead, they let India come out of it on his own, hearing re-engaging, tunnel vision de-activating, and his heart rate slowly settling back to normal. He became aware that Bill was sitting across from him, and that England was perched on the edge of the sofa. They looked worried. Especially England.

"Sorry." He mutters, feeling guilty. Bill shrugs it off.

"I'll bring you more water. Stay here as long as you like mate." India nods, then turns to his phone.

"Could you get us some chips, please?" He wouldn't feel right till he'd dealt with the problem, and that might take a while. He is too light headed to drive anyways. Bill gives him a thumbs up. He didn't look at England. Instead he turned to the text, and begins to translate.

_Hello Norway, ally and friend. _

_I need your knowledge about the magical curse upon me, england and your children. your friend and me have looked at magic happenings. we have identified fires and vandalisms that match in lots of ways the one on us._

_One switched a man and a goat, and made a fire. the array was spontaneous. adult england's books suggest this is impossible, from your knowledge - how (if) can you power this? _

_On the second note, england was employed by victims to investigate and help. to you and my brother (your friend) he is a suspect. _

_With respect to your knowledge - this is not in the evidence. england looked at these curses - tried to replicate them after they had been used. he couldn't succeed. this I must emphasise. additionally, he tried to help free of charge. when problems stayed he made protections for them. I think they worked, but I am a beginner looking at this- you can confirm. We must think again. _

_He was helping them. _

India looks at his translation, fingers shaking. Corrects a few spelling mistakes.

Then hits send.

* * *

He barely managed the drive home. His head was in a fugue as bad as the ones he'd get in the 1920s, and his limbs felt like they were connected by puppet strings- never quite where they were supposed to be. It took all his focus to make the short drive back to the house. He pulled into the driveway to the grinding of gears as he fought with his arms to shift them.

He flops his head on the steering wheel, England's high voice hazy and distant. This was insane. He was insane. How could he feel so dissociative when they now knew England wasn't at fault. Wasn't sliding back (probably). Wasn't plotting (_probably_). Bitter, hard won suspicion battered away at his ribcage under the smothering smoke of dissociation and reason. In his mind's eye he could see the people he talked to, he could see the others who'd survived and escaped. The ones who thought he'd gotten over it. Bengals face front and center. In his mind's ear he could hear her voice.

_Why are you upset? Isn't this good? _

_Is it? _It was mad, perhaps to talk to yourself- but in the claws of the storm he couldn't care less. He had for the longest time-_ centuries_\- wanted England to change. He'd wanted the relationship without the exploitation, the hurt, the humiliation of disrespect. He'd wanted the biting humour and barely stifled passion. He hadn't wanted to be caged. He'd tried, and tried, and tried. It'd taken World War 1 for him to realise that nothing was ever going to change. It freed him as much as it hurt him.

_Now I'm wrong. _

The thought opens up a yawning terror inside him. The kind that had him scrubbing floors till three in the morning. The kind that made him change his kameez for a western suit and bite his tongue. A sharp pinch bought him back to reality just long enough to hear Arthurs childish voice.

"Do you want me to get Bengal?" His voice is soft, and unlike him. India had expected him too shout. Or maybe Arthur expected _him _to shout. It's an unhappy thought that doesn't quite bounce off his dissociated brain. He apologizes, he's not sure what for. The previous hour is a mess in his head.

The boy shakes his head, though India can't make sense of why, and hops out of the car. He stares after him a moment before resting his head back on the steering wheel and giving in to the panic attack.

The array glistened in the afternoon light- almost a week since it's discovery and only the edges had gone brown and flaky. Did the array store magic? Or was to blood itself magical? Moreover, what had England found out? What had he hoped to achieve, the night before that fateful meeting? Bengal makes a note on her paper.

Bengal stares at the note, and blinks. She then slowly, seriously, takes a sip of tea. She makes a face and spat the cold, clammy liquid back in the cup, swilling her saliva around to purge the remainder. She puts it with the others. Five in a cluster like a rejected little tribe, milk scum floating on top. Any more and she'd run out of mugs.

But who cared! She had a lead, a focus to direct her attention - she was jittery with sleep deprivation and excitement. They could move forward. Finally.

Now if only she could hold a train of thought for longer than a minute.

"Bengal!" A voice. Again she blinked, looking around for the source. "Bengaal!" Vaguely she wonders if she'd finally started hallucinating from tiredness.

Then England crashes through the door in a very un-hallucinogenic way. His yells were cut short as a cup skids away under his feet - spinning away and knocking the rest over. Tea spilled everywhere as he flailed, catching himself on the door handle with a yelp. She sighs and stands up before it could soak into her dress. For a horrible moment the world tipped sideways. She catches herself on the wall. She was fine.

England, heavy bags under worried eyes, stares at her in shock. Perhaps she shouldn't have worked through her nap.

"You ok?" he says. Vaguely she wonders if she should pat him again, get him used to taking comfort, because she wasn't _that _bad. She smiled at him. It didn't help.

"Yes." She says, eventually. "Are you?"

"India's sick- he's talking funny and can't get out the car! I can't pull him out on my own!" She rubs her ringing ears at his shrill voice. Panic oozed into her from somewhere beneath her navel.

"Show me."

Trying to walk down the stairs shows her that she is not fine. She hopes the kid doesn't notice but the world is tipping like a ship in a storm for her. He doesn't, and she makes her wobbly way into the sharp sunlight on the drive, pausing only to grab a scarf and quickly wrap it round her hair. Its barey decent, but it'll do. India is slumped over on one side, his hands white on the steering wheel. He almost looks like he's passed out.

He doesn't respond much when she gets there either, only raising his head when she shakes his shoulder. Far from being glazed over, his eyes are blown wide, irises pitch black and surrounded on all sides by white sclera. His eyes are terrified. And he's panting too- shallow and fast. However, unlike the seizures, she knows this. She's seen it too many times to count.

"Brother can you hear me?" He nods like a drunkard. Gently she places a hand on his back and rubs it. There's nothing to do but wait it out. "I'm going to take you inside - you understand?"

At first he shakes his head, but eventually she cajoles him out. It's hard because, although he's responding to her voice, she doesn't think he can hear her very well. She's not sure if the future has a better name for hysteria- but from her own experience she knows how it can deafen you. His limbs don't seem to be responding right either - when he stands he sways perilously. She leans him on her. England takes his other arm without question. Between them they get him out of the car, over the threshold, and sit him on the sofa. He immediately slumps sideways.

"C-" His breathing is so heavy his voice gets cut off before words can fully form. "Car...the keys.. inside. ." He makes an attempt to stand up. She puts a had on his shoulder, which he immediately pushes off. "The car's ...unlocked.. I need.. To go back."

Her knees have folded up under her from tiredness, but she understands enough to turn to England, who's also visibly swaying despite his stiff posture. "Go get the keys and lock the car please."

As he lurches off India tries to shout after him. "Its a button press!" But it's swallowed up by his breathing.

"He'll figure it out." She places a hand on his knee to reassure him. The look he gives her is wild.

"How do you know?" She rubs his knee. She doesn't know, but saying that will only make it worse.

"He's a smart boy." India lets out a horse, bitter laugh that chokes itself off in a sob. He buries his head in his hands. Her stomach clenches and she rubs his shoulders with her hands, trying to comfort him. His muscles tremble under her finger tips.

"Its ok, it's alright, we're fine-" Bengal has never had a mother. The twins claim to remember her, claims she found her in the delta of the Ganges, but without memory it may as well not have happened. All she can draw on is the few times she's watched human women comfort children. Or men comfort young boys (and, occasionally, girls) on the battlefield. She always made herself scarce. Comforting was Nakulas job. So she can't be sure she's doing it right. She keeps it up. Slowly his sobs subside and are replaced by deliberately slow, deep breathes. Under his breath she can hear him muttering on the out flow-

"_One, two, three, four." _Then in for the same amount of time. It reminds her a little of meditation. She can't recall it being used like this. Gradually, his shaking subsides too. She hears the door shut and England stumble into the room. She take a glance at him. Somehow, he's grazed his face. The boy flushes under scrutiny, but she turns her attention immediately back to her brother before he can say anything.

"It's ok." He croaks. He's still breathing in fours. "I'm alright. Just check he's locked the car properly." She pauses, he doesn't _look_ ok. He pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes are swollen. "Please. I'm ok, I just need a moment." He pulls a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Reluctantly, she takes her hand off and nods. She tries not to feel hurt that he's shutting her out again. She just has to try and trust him to do what's best for himself. A week ago she'd have had no qualms, but now?

"Call me if you need _anything_, all right? You understand, you big idiot?" Her voice is deadly serious. He nods.

She carefully stands up- its hard, and she stumbles before catching herself. She takes one last look at Nakula, whose face is buried back in his hands, before heading into the kitchen, boy on her heels. She puts the kettle on.

"What happened?"

England's face twists and he sighs. "I told you , one minute he was fine, then he's going grey and moping all over the shop."

"And nothing else happened" She hears a noncommittal grunt from behind her just as the kettle boils. She takes it off the heat. "By the way, have you had anything to eat?"

"No, maybe, I don't know!" She turns to look at him, he's looking at his feet but is very tense. He doesn't say anything else.

"And?"

He looks at her, face warped by stress. "And what?"

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"Oh." He blinks. "I'm fine, I had chips. India didn't eat any though." He bites his lip. She pours out the tea and puts it on the table for them before rooting out the ginger cake. It'd been one of India's experiments, seeing if they still liked the same things as their older selves. The results had been mixed, but the ginger cake had been a resounding success.

England sat and fidgeted as she cleared the table, moving her Quran and the pages of notes off to the side so there'd be room. His hands were shaking. He hid them under the table when he caught her looking.

They don't even sit for a minute before the dam bursts.

"I think I did something wrong. Me and the big man were both speaking to him at the same time, I think he wanted to know why the wall was so melted, and I wanted to know what he was saying but I don't think he could cope with the two languages at the same time cause he went grey and wobbly and started breathing heavy-" he took a deep breath, face flushed from distress, eyes shining, "-But he speaks two languages all the time so I don't know what I did wrong. But he apologised in the car and I don't know why! You've gotta help me!"

He's panting almost as hard as India now, and internally she steels herself, she hadn't been storing her energy to support them, and it takes a moment to process what he's said. And try to say something palatable.

"What did you say to him?" In her defence, she'd never claimed to be good at it. The boy pales sharpley.

"I don't know!" he wails. Whatever steely pride had been holding him up all week seems to crumble now as his head collapses into his hands, nails biting deep into his scalp. She freezes, every instinct trained by years with siblings tells her now is the time for a hug, but she knows the boy would fight to the death rather than accept. Instead she proffered the only thing likely to distract him.

"Cake?" She plonks a large, sticky slice of ginger cake next to him. He ignores it. She tries to think about what could have caused India's meltdown. Things like that, well. When she'd experienced them it had always been because she'd felt hopeless, like the future was going to crush her - grind her up like a bug and there was no escape. She didn't think anything the child could say could have caused that. She pauses. _Well, almost anything_.

But England would have noticed. She glances at him, curled up in on himself- he doesn't look like he's lying. It must be something else.

Then, horribly, an idea strikes her.

"Give me a moment." He looks up at her, puffy eyed as she sneaks into the next room.

Just in time to see India heading out the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" It comes out angrier than she meant it. He looks at her as he pulls on a light brown jacket, one half of him bathed in sunlight.

"For a walk," He still doesn't look quite right. "I just need some time to myself."

She opens her mouth. "I'll be alright." He says, and holds up his phone. "You remember how to take calls right? I won't be long."

She shuts it, it's not like she can force him to do anything. He gives her a thin smile, and walks out the door. It clicks shut just as she hears a yelp from the kitchen. She runs back in to see England halfway across the room cradling his hand to his chest, boiling hot tea all over the table.

There's a moment of panic when she tries to pull him over to the tap, fails, and has to try and persuade the scalded teanager to tend to himself. "It'll heal in a moment! I'm fine" is not really what she wants to hear. But she can't make him move, so all she can do is hand him a towel to mop up the burning liquid as the boy resolutely ignores his red, shiny burn. She glances at her notes.

Because whatever he says, this is not fine.

* * *

The sun beats down on his back shockingly hot as he walks around the neighborhood. He likes to walk, he finds it freeing, and it normally takes him away from his paperwork. It's like that now, not so much walking _towards_ as _away_. Giving himself some breathing room. Because something had to give, and if he wasn't careful, it'd be him.

_How can you run away- they need-_

He blots the thought out there. Bengal was a grown adult, not a little lost lamb. If she wanted him to trust her… He shook his head and changed direction once, twice, letting himself get lost in a way that was physically impossible on home turf. His thoughts chased themselves, fragments of memory, and flashbacks, and thoughts blending together into a confusing, conflicting soup. He walked quicker, barely avoiding bumping into others in his haste to get away from himself.

He walked until he was too hot to continue. He wasn't tired, nations were tough as oxen, and such a short walk meant nothing to him. But that didn't stop respiration. He was soaking in sweat- in his defence the coat had seemed like a good idea. An extra layer between himself and the world. The UK was normally cold enough to accommodate. No wonder England was so fond of them.

He sighs, and stops dead in his tracks outside a coffee shop. Because this was what it came down to. Again. He pushes the door in and joins the que, barely conscious of his surroundings, only just remembering to hold the door for an old lady with a green jewel on her finger.

England. What was the phrase? Can't live with them, can't live without them? Except normally that meant you had the desire to be with them, not desiring to chuck them to the other side of the galaxy. Being free, being on the other side of the world, seeing him only at public meetings, was enough. Was the compromise he could survive. Could thrive on, even. He was a living reminder that India would never settle for less, ever again. He orders a chai and feels himself slump.

Because he couldn't cope with this. It'd barely been two weeks and he could feel his head slip away from him. It wasn't even as if it was like he was dealing with England proper.

_How does Ireland even cope? _

_By bitching at you. And drinking. _His brain supplies. It didn't help. Especially since guilt had joined the anger and deep ingrained fear in his stomach. He sighs again, unable to stifle it. The barrister, a bouncy young woman in her twenties, flounces up.

"Here you go sir! Sorry for the wait!" and she presents him with his… coffee?

"I ordered a chai?" he says, staring confusedly at the frothy top. It had a fern painted in it.

"Yes, a chai latte?" Her beatific smile crinkles uncomfortably around the edges. "Is there a problem?"

"No, no! Thanks." He walks away, unwilling to cause a fuss- then cursed himself as he sat down. He wasn't meek, or cowed, or too stifled to speak up and explain what he actually wanted. And then he felt awful. She was only doing her best. And according to Bengal he'd never cowered. So why did it even matter?

_Because that's not how I remember it. _

And then he was back in the spiral. Old and new memories overlapping, guilt and anger and fear digging and clawing into his stomach until he felt he was going to be sick-

"Excuse me," says a soft, confident Marathi voice, "May I sit with you?"

He looks up, but was so out of it he didn't respond for a second.

"Or perhaps not? Would you be better with this?" Her voice trembles with nerves for a moment as she transitions to slightly accented Bengali.

"No it's fine!" He replies in Marathi. "I was just surprised, is all."

The lady sits down in a flurry of bright clothes, a small thump into the chair at the end suggesting a leg injury- or perhaps at her age, arthritis. She was a handsome woman, with grey shot through her black hair, and wrinkles around her serious, watchful eyes. She rests a pink walking stick against the table as a waiter brings her tea and biscuits. She looks familiar.

"Could you get a cup, please," she turns and says to the girl in English. "For my friend."

She pours him a cup.

"Chai tea," she says with a smirk. "You have to specify here." She pauses for a moment, looking suddenly uncertain. "You don't mind if we continue in Marathi do you, only my English isn't so-"

"No! No! Marathi's better for me- whatever suits you." She breathes out in noticeable relief and waves her hand in a way that says to him, _well you know. _A green ring glints on her finger.

"Wait, you aren't Mrs Thakur are you?" She nods.

"And you're they young man who visited my sons." It's not a question. "Vithala?"

"Vihaan." They sit in silence. "I should thank you for the cake, you're husband must be a happy man."

She snorts derisively. "I hope not, he's dead." India's face flushes with shock and embarrassment as he tries to backpedal, but she waves him off like an annoying fly.

"Don't apologize child, it was the best day of my life. It's why I refuse to wear white, you know." She gestures down at her garish gown, bright green and covered in sequined patterns. "If there's any justice in the world he'll have been reincarnated as a slime mould." She takes a dignified sip of tea.

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend." India's mouth dries up.

"Coworker." She gives him a long look. He squirms.

"Sorry, I just assumed you were still close." India's stomach flips over as he takes a large mouthful of scalding tea. "Since he left you holding the baby- how do your kind even reproduce anyway?"

He chokes. He splutters. He snorts boiling tea out his nose. "Well, I believe- _garrg _\- that you get a surrogate-

"Not that you silly boy, I have sons, I'm old, not backwards." She gives him a stern look."I meant as a nation? Avatar?"

He gets the sensation of falling. His stomach flips itself back over and lodges itself somewhere in his throat. He becomes acutely aware of the bright lights and busy tables, and of how he's on a sofa against the wall. No way to leave.

"That's a state secret Thakur." His voice croaks - for good reason. Humans got a bit funny about personifications of their communities. At best they just measured everything you did and ate, augers haunting your every step like vultures. At worst...well, there were good reasons why they'd allowed themselves to fade into myth centuries ago.

To her credit, Mrs Thakur winces. "I know, I'm sorry- my father was a civil servant before he joined the marches. He recognised you immediately. Don't worry, I don't think anyone would believe me if I told them."

She continues. "You exactly the same."

He smiles a little. "Immortality will do that for you."

"I suppose so." She takes a little sip of tea, then purses her lips into a grimace. "But I meant that you look like you did in Arthurs pictures.." She sees the look on his face. "He has them on his mantle piece, that's why I thought you were still close. I'm sorry."

"I suppose it's going to seem a bit silly but I only realised who you were when you walked through the door the other day. It's your voice, I think." Her eyes take on the far off look of the old when recalling something very far away. Extremely far. If her father had recognised him during the independence marches or even the salt marches, she must have seen him when she was just a little girl.

He doesn't say anything.

She looks sad. "I suppose that must mean that Arthur is the same type as you. Who is he then, really, Britain?"

"England."

"Oh." She has a far off look on her face. "No wonder my boys were so trusting of him."

He feels his brow crease. "You weren't?" Generally people who immigrated where as much a part of the nation as anyone else, though they never lost that thread to their first home. Being around England should have been as natural as breathing.

She gives a sharp toothed smile. "A he fights his family constantly, he even told me that he'd driven everyone away. Even the man he loved." She shrugs. "I can read between the lines."

India's voice catches in his throat- it takes him a moment to regain composure.

"Did he really help your boys without asking for anything?"

She gives him a serious look. "Yes."

He gropes around for another explanation. "And did you ever get the feeling that he had some other interest, a plan- or just something he wasn't telling you?"

"Other than being the immortal embodiment of England?" she says, one eyebrow raised. He purses his lips at her.

"No." She says. Her voice was firm. "I have a good sense of people and he goes to my crochet club. And I knew he could be erratic from Ishaan. He never did anything untoward."

"And your boys would never hide their worries from you, or lie to cover something up?" He couldn't deny, something had been off in that conversation.

"No!"

India feels the floor fall out from under him, his stomach shrivels and his palms sweat. There's no escaping it. He was wrong, Bengal was right. _See, I told you he didn't do it._

Mrs Thakur takes a sip of tea. "If it helps, my husband was always lovely to people outside the family."

"Arthur wasn't." He replies flatly. "He coasted by on sarcasm and his political convenience." There was little more useful than the combined knowledge and determination of a loyal creature that cannot die and will not rebel.

A moment of silence opens up between them. The coffee cools untouched in a mug as India taps his fingers against his tea cup.

"I don't think he liked himself very much." India says slowly. An internal dam broke, and the words flowed out. "He used to get drunk- or high- a lot. He was arrogant, a tyrant when sober. But when he drank he'd sometimes be easier to handle. Gentler. He didn't dwell on things so much." Memories of sopping up vomit and blood, of hauling back a sobbing man and holding him till he stopped. His hand tightened involuntarily on his cup. "Or he'd be worse. Much worse."

He sends a desperate glance to Mrs Thakur. He doesn't want to explain this, but is scared he might not be able to stop. She nods in understanding.

"And he'd apologize sometimes. He'd be nearly _normal_. And I'd think- I can make this work. You know? Especially because he always tried to stick to his own rules." It'd been one of the things he'd genuinely admired- England barely gave a shit about what others thought of him, but he had his own code. India is, and always had been, a social butterfly. He'd admired that. They'd admired each other. It makes him feel sick to remember it. "Do you know what was so bad about this, really? It made him predictable - to me at least. And I could use that. Sometimes. And I could-"

"Protect the others." Mrs Thakurs eyes were as far away as India felt. He nods. It takes him a long time to forgive himself, that. It wasn't something he could pride himself on. After all it's not like he could have _died_.

"And he thought himself _good. _Because he'd only occasionally smack us about." His voice shakes with anger.

"They always think that." Mrs Thakurs voice is heavy with disdain. They lapse into silence.

"Mine liked to dance." Her voice is quiet, but strong. Unlike him, she sounds like this topic is well worn. He wonders if she saw a doctor. "I tried to find as many classes as I could. I had blisters on my feet for _years._" She shakes her head. "Can't stand it now."

"We'd watch Shakespear." He'd never grown sick of them though, they'd been an escape.

Again they lapse into silence, nursing their hurts. It took a weight off him, to talk to someone who knew how bad it could get. Bengal… Just wasn't Bangladesh. She hadn't lived through it. Yet. His heart clenched. She _liked _him.

India was tolerating him for the greater good.

"One thing I don't understand." Her voice is slow. "Is why you don't just take the child and run."

His mouth goes dry. "Mrs Thakur- "

"Padma." She gives a wan smile. "I think we're beyond formalities, don't you? What I mean is - you escaped. Arth- _England _\- is not your problem anymore. I like living here, I even get like Arthur well enough. But, what's the phrase? He made his bed- let him lie in it. If he- if he has no one who wants to help- that's his own fault."

He looks at her, and tries to organise his feelings into something that makes sense. If anyone deserved to be left alone to suffer- he suppresses a shudder at the thought- it was England. The man never wanted help anyway. But that's not an image he can sustain. Instead his brain measures that horrible unpredictability next to him trying to help. This strange thing casting spells that should be impossible. Little England seizing, blood dripping from his face. And a wrinkled, thin man in a dhoti- fighting for freedom without ever firing a shot.

"Because it would be wrong." Padma's eyebrows shoot up, and he rushes to clarify. "For me anyway. I think he's in real danger- and I don't want that." He doesn't say, _so is my sister_, because he realises to him, that's not relevant. He could have left England behind. It's strangely painful to realise why he didn't. "I haven't wanted that for a long time."

Padma gives him a soft look. "Is that why you joined the non-cooperation movement?"

"No." India is a bad pacifist. He'd joined because, after a certain amount of time, England couldn't justify hitting someone who didn't fight back. Predictability. It had ruled his life.

"How about you?" Her eyes widen.

"Me?"

"Why didn't you take Arjun and run?"

She looks sad. "Nowhere to run to, I suppose. And who would I be if I did- hah! Some unreliable' divorcee, immigrant, single mother. I barely even spoke Englinsh- he wouldn't let me learn you know. All the other ladies thought I was too proud. Or stupid." She looks at her teacup. "Even the Asians." She smiles forlornly. "I never was good at making friends."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, he's long dead now." She shakes her head, looking pained. "Is that why you can bare to look for him? Because you escaped and I didn't?"

"I -" he closes his mouth, starts again, "-I don't think so. It's been longer for me." They live so long that, though he thinks they're very like their citizens, some solutions are just open to them that- aren't. To humans. But he's also stronger now, no longer fracturing at the edges, or willing to entertain dangerous men just to wrestle control out of chaos.

Vaguely, he is aware that most of the patrons have filtered out. Sunlight still streams through the windows- but it's noticeably lower in the sky. The waitstaff are packing up, mopping and cleaning tables. He takes a sip of tea and makes a face. It's gone cold.

"I don't know what to do." He says. "I don't know if it matters that he didn't ask for payment. His kid-" he pauses for a half-second at the lie, but stops himself from backtracking, "- his kid is showing signs of being like him."

"Oh." She winces. "I got lucky. Arjun's nothing like his father."

"I think my sister wants me to forgive him." He blurts it out. It's unfair, perhaps, but the fear is there. Padma sips some tea.

"Was your sister there?" she asks eventually.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then opts for honesty. "No."

"Then I don't think she gets a say, do you?" Her voice is firm, and allows no argument.

There's a gentle cough next to them.

"Sorry," says the bouncy barrister in English, "But we're closing soon.."

"No problem, we were just finishing." India replies. He feels wrung out and dry, but lighter too. Padma nods. He helps her to her feet, wincing at the audible click of her arthritic knees. Humans aged so painfully. They walk out the door together.

"See! There he is!" India turned in surprise. England was running up the street, rudely pointing right at him. He turns to yell at Bengal, who is following at a more sedate pace. "I _told_ you he was around here!"

She rolls her eyes.

"That's what you said three streets ago!" As they get closer he can see they must have got a little sleep- their faces are flush with health and they're standing straight again. Doubtless that was why England could find him now. He feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. England also had a bandage on his right hand. He'd have to ask about that later.

He turns back to Padma. "Goodnight, thankyou for talking to me." He means it.

She gives him a long look, then smiles. "Likewise. Take care, India."

* * *

So I just want to clarify- you are under no obligation to contact, help, care for, or forgive someone who has abused you, and no-one has the right to ask you to. At the same time there are some people who do remain in contact, or make contact years later, or contemplate it. I have, and I know of others who do. Not everyone has the same responses, and as long as they keep themselves safe and free, it's an option. India's choices here are occuring in that context. Also nations live much longer than humans, and are basically immortal. I think that'll have a pretty big effect on how they relate to violence- also a nation that was violent is more likely to change than a human, just because of the time scales involved.

I've also chosen not to go into the gory details either of British violence in India or Arthurs violence against Vihaan. It's too easy for that kind of thing to become torture porn for my tastes, and honestly, it doesn't matter as much as the effects. If I think it's incharacter for them to talk about that then I will- but otherwise? It's not that sort of story. Again the emotional impact matters more to me.

Also, whilst a lot of panic attacks can be very low key (or even invisible), I have absolutely seen panic attacks on the scale India has here :( The dissociation can definitely affect it also, and unfortunately I've experienced dissociation so severe that it messes with your ability to stand.

From what I've read, the interwar years in India were where the independence movements (including Gandhi's non-cooperation movement) but this was also met with violence from the British administration. Protesters risked arrests and beatings- the worst being the 1919 Amritsar massacre. At the same time this was a long time before India gained independence. So I think this would have been a difficult time for India- as he was actively trying to escape but not free of England's control yet.

Trivia fact! Mindfulness, especially mindful breathing is useful for managing anxiety and was heavily inspired by controlled breathing in things like yoga and Buddhist meditation. So I think what India is doing here would probably remind her of it.

The Ganges is the holiest river in India and Bangladesh, and is in a lot of folktales. I headcanon that India, Pakistan and Bangladesh were all born in the Ganges.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Things Fall Apart

"_And as reports continue to come in about the acute, mania-like symptoms affecting local residents in Wiltshire, activists have renewed criticism of the Government's cuts to local social services. The incidents have been likened to medieval dancing plagues by experts, with-"_

"Are you sure about this?" India turns the radio off, switching back to his phone's home screen, before facing Bengal. Sun streams through the window as she sips her tea. It gives a golden, hazy look to everything, like the air is soaked in honey.

"Shouldn't I be?" He says, hand pausing over his coat before leaving it on the rack and only pocketing his car keys. Pain flickers across her face- he sighs. "Look, I know they're lying about something. And you're right, we can't waste time." He translates the news report before continuing. "Those villages are near Stonehenge. If that's not a high magic area I don't know what is. What the Thakurs are hiding… it could help us."

She doesn't reply, but her face is twisted into an unhappy look. His phone buzzes and he turns from her to unlock it with a flick of his thumb. Norway.

_Transformations are extremely rough on the body. Memory loss, body pain, balance issues- unless someone really knows what they're doing you can badly hurt someone. You don't have to worry so much with nations, but humans? Aren't that sturdy. _

He frowns and takes a bite of his dosa.

The birds chirp as Bengal sips her tea on the steps. Absentmindedly, India shifts from one foot to another, as he finishes his food. He would normally eat at the table but he'd woken up solidly energetic- he'd not stopped researching all morning. On the floor above, England kicks his feet back and forth through the railings, head hanging in a doze.

"I want to take Arthur with me." India says eventually. Bengal is startled, then her forehead creases in concern. "As a thankyou- and sorry. For leaving you in that state."

"Do you think you'll be ok?" he shrugs, drawing on that well of...strength? Purpose. That had been replenished. He glances up at the boy above.

"Yes. I do."

* * *

The car is so stifling hot, even India has to open a window. Next to him sits England, bright red from heat but otherwise alert. He'd been in a funny mood the whole journey, tracking India's movements almost nervously, and jumping at roundabouts. Perhaps India's dissociative driving had been scarier than he'd thought. He suppresses a twinge of guilt.

He feels a bit incongruous parking on the Thakur's driveway. He'd not really noticed before, but the street was incredibly normal- redbrick semi's with a few potted plants outside. The other cars are decent to shabby hatchback type things- with the occasional big piped, innocuously small young man's racer to break it up. His own shiny government car sticks out like a sore thumb.

He double checks his phone- 14.55. Just five minutes before they'd planned. That was ok.

"We're only here to get information." He re-explains to England. "I'll lead- you can support me. Just act natural and we'll be fine." _Sit still, be quiet, _is what he doesn't say- it's not like the child will be able to understand what's being said. But the kid is so on edge from the journey India needs to soothe his ruffled feathers.

The boy just stiffens up more. So India breaks out a cocky grin as he cracks the car door open.

"Don't worry! We won't leave without answers."

They swan up the drive, past the potted coriander bush together. It's not long, but it does the trick. Confidence flows up India's legs and shakes out into his shoulders, and his open posture becomes as natural and light as air. England shifts behind him, serious and dour. India straightens his shirt. Then knocks.

"Come in!" Arjun throws open the door, smiling and rumpled all over. His green shirt is streaked with flour. Despite his smile, his eyes are creased with worry lines. "Mum's out, so there's not much cake- but I've made tea and scones."

"Please." India replies, as both of them follow him through to the livingroom and settle on the sofa. Tea pots are already on the table, joined by half a dozen lumpy scones with cream and jam. India's own practiced smile comes much more naturally than Arjun's. Ishaan smiles back at him, already sat across from them on the other sofa, legs crossed and Alice in Wonderland open on his lap.

"If you want biscuits, there's some in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself" India nods, and relays the message to England, who immediately perks up and slips away. Arjun snorts, soft face still settled into a warm smile. However, it slips away as he sits next to his husband and meets India's eyes.

"So what did you want to talk about, Vihaan?" His eyes are nervous.

"I just wanted to go over a few things regarding the night of the fire… and the month before, if that's possible."

Arjun gives him a confused, uncomfortable smile. "Why so formal? Just ask us whatever, you know?"

India forces himself to relax his shoulders. "I was going to ask if anyone had access to your house in the month before the fire? Break ins, unexpected guests?"

"No." They both look surprised, and Arjun glances at Ishaan. "Should we?"

India bites his lip for a moment before deciding to tell them. "The arrays used on your house were spontaneous- rather than being drawn by someone then activated- which is pretty rare." _One of a kind. _"Are you sure there wasn't anyone at all? Especially in February - anyone who might have been upset with you."

They shake their heads. Ishaan speaks up, deep voice ringing with sincerity. "You mean the fire? I can't imagine anyone- obviously a lot of people get upset with me at the hospital because they're under a lot of stress. But nothing like that. I mean even the police haven't found anyone with a grudge."

"The police?" The last India had heard the fire had been written off as faulty wiring.

Ishaan freezes for a half second. Unless you were looking for it, you'd have never noticed. Mentally, India files it away. "They carried out a full investigation, obviously, to determine if it was suspicious. It was actually them that made me aware of the array in the first place. They showed me the pictures in victim support."

His brow creases in confusion. "Really? Seems a bit harsh. Why go into the house for another picture after that?"

Ishaan meets his eyes with a level stare. "They clearly had no idea what they were looking at- the picture wasn't very good. Besides-" he shrugs, "-it's not like I could just walk out with their evidence and hand it to Arthur is it?"

India's reply is interrupted by England walking in, laden with biscuits. He walks into the living room carrying a plate of them, pockets noticeably bulging. He freezes for a moment and eyes the adults suspiciously. India shuts his mouth and redirects.

"It's ok, come and sit down." He says in French, and pats the seat next to him. England nods, puts the plate on the table and joins him before fishing a custard cream out of his pocket.

"Kids." Arjun shakes his head with a strained smile.

"You have no idea," India jokes back. The tension hasn't diminished at all. He scratches the back of his neck as he turns back to Ishaan. "Is there anything on the night you could have missed?"

Ishaan frowns thoughtfully. "Maybe? Like he-" he pats Arjun's knee, "-told you, I don't remember much. I went to bed early, I remember that because this one's crosswords were still all over the place, I had to remove like- five of them to lie down." A small smile twitches his lips. "After that- it was cold, and terribly painful all over. The next thing I can remember is waking up in an alley and scrambling out to see the house on fire."

Again there's a small hitch that has India tensing automatically, besides him, he notices England do the same- even without understanding the conversation. Maybe it's his Connection, or maybe he's just picking up on India's body language.

Arjun squeezes Ishaan's hand as the man miserably rubs his brow. "Arjun was crying, and handed me his dressing gown. Good job too because the ambulance and that didn't take long to get there." He laughs unhappily. "I don't particularly want to get done for streaking."

India quirks his lips into a sympathetic smile as he lets Ishaan gather himself. He backs off a little too. "And nothing else outside the house was odd or unusual in any way?"

"Not unless you count the weather," says Arjun, half joking. Ishaan squeezes his hand again.

"Yeah, I was back at work the next day. Felt like a sauna." Ishaan says, and looks at his husband. "Some places are getting rain though."

"Like Surry." Arjun smiles and nudges him. India gives them a confused look. "We went to visit my Aunt." says Arjun. Again, an uncertainty- more noticeable this time. India and England tense.

"I thought Padma left all her relatives back in India?" She'd certainly implied it. Arjuns face freezes.

"My Aunt, there are two of us after all." Ishaan's voice is light but notably cool. Arjun visibly relaxes. India shrugs apologetically before moving on.

"Did the spell leave you feeling sick? Or disoriented at all?"

Ishaan laughs bitterly, "Which one?"

"Any."

Ishaan gives him a long look. "All of them. Why does it matter?"

India shakes his head. "Are you sure?"

Ishaan gives him a long look. "Yes, of course I am. Why."

"Because that's not possible." Ishaan opens his mouth, India beats him to it. "Transformations are brutal on the twists and warps. And a human mind doesn't fit neatly into a goats brain. The resulting trauma is somewhat like a concussion, apparently. And agonising body pain unless the caster _really_ knows you and what they're doing. You wouldn't have been able to crawl out of that alley on your own. Or remember that the bed was covered in crosswords right before. And you certainly wouldn't have been at work the next day."

Ishaans reply is quick. "Well maybe it wasn't the next day, maybe it was a few days- like you said I was sick."

India shakes his head. "I phoned and checked with your work. You were in the next morning."

"You- You called my work?" Ishaan rocks backwards. "How?"

India keeps his voice level. "I told you, I'm Arthurs co-worker. I have to get to the bottom of this." He doesn't say- _I pulled strings with the civil service _\- he doesn't have to. Ishaan's head sinks into his hands.

"Holy shit." Arjun is white as a sheet, but squeezes his husband close as he continues. "Fucking fuck."

India ignores him.

"The spell didn't actually transform you, did it?"

"No." Ishaan still has his head in his hands. "I got flung to some godforsaken field in Surrey. Nearly got arrested for streaking."

"It's not like it even matters." He lowers his hands from his face. "The police aren't going to believe me if I told them the truth. And even if I did they'd still want to know why I was even _in_ Surry that night instead of at home. And while Arjun nearly burned to death I was being useless in some stupid bloody feild in the rain nicking clothes so my bolloks didn't freeze off! And the police still think I did it! You want the truth? Fine! The police think I burned the house down! They think I did it! It doesn't even matter if they prove it because the suspicion could make me lose my job! Being a nurse..it's my whole life! Happy now?! Even streaking will fuck me over. So a _fat fucking lot of good this does me-" _

Ishaan slams his hand into the table- more bite than bark. India jumps reflexively. There's a flash of silver- and Ishaan _screams. _

There's a knife sticking out of his hand. Blood everywhere.

It seems to impale him to the table. India can only stare in shock as England leaps up and grabs it smoothly from flesh. He then levels it back at Ishaan- who's coiled on the sofa around his hand, looking small- or maybe that's just because India is standing now? Before changing targets to Arjun, who's also on his feet. England's hand doesn't even waver.

"PUT IT _DOWN!_"

"GET _AWAY _FROM MY HUSBAND!"

India turns the tables over in a crash and shoves Arjun out of the way as the knife misses him by inches. England's face is stone and he handles the knife with practiced ease. India puts himself between this madman and the Thakurs- hands open. England's eyes widen in shock.

"Get out of the way!" He says in French.

"England. Arthur. Put the knife down. You don't want to do this." His own voice is shockingly steady, though it feels like it comes from a different person, somewhere in front of his mouth, rather than in it. The boy looks at him blankly.

"Why? I'm doing my job." The knife gleams as he readjusts his grip. It was a kitchen knife, with a black handle, and an inhuman, wicked thin, sharp blade. With no _it wasn't suited for this stabbing and Arthur had already cut himself on it. A thin line of blood ran from his hand, down the handle to join the rest staining the blade. India felt sick.

"You don't want to do _this _though. Right?" India waves his hand at- everything. Broken crockery and furniture. Blood. Vaguely he's aware that Arjun and Ishaan have retreated to the back of the room- perhaps even the kitchen. He thinks he can hear someone on the phone- Arjun. Good. He'll call the police. Or an ambulance. Both.

He takes a step closer to England. If he can, he'll grab his arms. There are some options that are only open to nations. England takes a step back, looking frustrated.

"That's not the point!" England says it like _India's _the unreasonable one. He waves the blade around emphatically. India waves his hands to calm him.

"What are you talking about?" Hurt flickers across the boys face.

"You wanted them to talk, and they threatened you." India's mouth drops open as his hearing suddenly went muffled, like his whole head hand been dunked underwater. The information hit this interior wall inside his head and just.. Bounced off. He took it and wrapped it around until it was balled up and buried. Outside himself, he can hear England still talking.

For a long while he can't respond. It's strange, but from the inside he can see England's face change as his green eyes sweep over India's face. As he gets no verbal response. He must not look too good. The boy looks confused, then worried, his eyes darting around the room then back to India. He wonders if it's finally dawning on England that something is very, _very _wrong.

"Arthur." It takes a lot of work to make his mouth move, and his voice croaks. "Put the knife down, _please."_

He creeps forward by millimeters. And it feels like aeons. Finally his hands close on England's. They're warm and tiny and England's eyes flick down to look at them before staring back at India. He applies the barest pressure to get him to lower his weapon.

When the police barge through the door, the knife is already on the table.

* * *

The police station smells of vomit and bleach.

India is sat in the waiting room, on a hard plastic chair. Between diplomatic immunity and the Thakurs testimony he'd been quickly released.

England is in custody.

The shock had faded to numbness, then anger. It started as a small simmer in the toes and fingers and worked its way up- until it burned over his legs, arms, face and chest. The kind of bone deep, gut wrenching rage that burned long, rather than hot. Which was good, because he'd been wrong - the knife hadn't missed Arjun. He'd needed stitches. India hadn't- benefits of being a nation. His ears are ringing.

_It's my job! _

India glowers at his phone, the face still showing the number of the Brittish Prime Minister. His lip curls in disgust. Apparently no one at the Home Office had thought that their miniaturized nation might need documents. Or diplomatic immunity. He takes some small satisfaction in forcing the obstinate bastards to actually do something for once.

The relief was temporary.

Squeaking door hinges make him jerk his head up to see an old, paternal looking policeman guiding England towards the front desk with a hand on his shoulder. The boy spots him, and pauses for a moment- wounded pride and fear flit across his face. Any other day it would have made his heart flinch. Not today. After a moment Arthur's face closes up, hardening into a look of aloof disinterest. India endured the police officers pointless lecture stoically, barely taking it in. The boys face is extremely familiar.

He doesn't care.

He holds his anger tight to his chest on the drive home. They'd been lucky, apparently the civil service could cook some documents pretty fast when someone gave them the right incentive. He hopes they haven't been gone long enough to worry Bengal. He glances at his watch and scowls. 16 hours. Fat chance. England fidgets when he thinks India isn't looking. India ignores him. The silence in the car is ice.

He pulls into the drive, sweeps out of the car and into the house to the sound of crunching gravel. Once they're both in the house he closes and locks the door. Then, and only then, does he turn to look at England.

"What," he hisses, "was that."

For a half-second the boy freezes again, then eyes narrow and he hisses back.

"My _job. _If you didn't want my doing it you should have _said._"

"No. I shouldn't." His heart is throbbing in his ears. "I should be able to trust that when I send you into our hosts kitchen you _won't _steal a knife and _fucking stab them with it!_"

"I only stabbed one of th-"

"I DON'T CARE!"

The boy flushes and balls his fists. "Why?! It's not like you know them! They're not even yours! They were hiding things! The skinny one was going to hurt you, why can't you see that. Why are you being so _stupid!_"

Blood drains from Indias face so fast it leaves him dizzy. "You what..." He tries to focus on the boy in front of him, not the swimming overlay of red coat and musket. He can't. He's not sure why he even bothers. "You... You vicious, evil little shit- how _dare-_"

"_AHHH!" _

They freeze. The scream is short, high pitched and female. India looks at the stairs in horror, then back to England's shocked eyes. _**Bengal. **_

* * *

Upstairs, the fit is still in progress. India begins to count, and slips a pillow behind Bengals head. Her body twists, long painful seizures interspaced with floppiness. Her scarf has got caught under one shoulder. At every twist it draws tighter around her neck. His fingers are shaky and unsure but he manages to slip a finger underneath and pull it away from her throat. England steps over the threshold.

"Stay there!" He does, one had outstretched and eyes wide as saucers.

India focuses on his sister. His hands struggle to find a way to fully loosen her hijab- his fingers slip over the cloth. And when he thinks he does grip the cotton and pull it completely loose, she's not breathing. Carefully, he waits, heart in his throat. She breathes again when she goes limp, then stops when another fit takes her. It punches her gasping breath straight out of her.

It happens twice more before the seizures finally pass. He gently rolls her onto her side, her eyelids flutter for a moment, but she doesn't wake. Gently, he rubs her hand. Her face is relaxed, but so _so_ tired, even asleep. Or unconscious. They're not really the same. He checks his watch. Four minutes. Ish. He has a sinking feeling he's in for a long wait.

That they're in for a long wait

He glances back at the boy. He's standing rigid at the entrance to the room, eyes not straying from India. India holds his gaze- he doesn't know what else to do - other than keep the boy away from his sister.

"Is she alright?" England's voice is quiet. India shrugs. He doesn't have the energy to lie. As he shifts his knee, paper crackles.

He looks down. The floor- from door to bed- is coated with paper. If it had ever been in any order, Bengals seizure and India's ruh to help her had destroyed it. He picks up two halves of a page that had ripped in the chaos and turns them over. They're covered in Arabic- they look like passages from the Quran.

His head is buzzing too much to make sense of it. Instead he focuses back on Bengal, and clears away only the papers that could make him slip. He opens his mouth. Pauses.

"England." He says eventually. "Could you prepare her bed for me?"

The boy jumps to comply, skittering carefully around the edge so he doesn't tread on her outstretched fingers. As he busies himself fluffing pillows and pulling back the duvet. India tries to figure out how best to lift his sister into bed. Carefully he bends her knees, loops his arms around her in a bridal hold and lifts her. It's ungainly, and he struggles to put her down on the bed gently, and his back hurts. But he manages.

England tries to help. India's glare cuts him off before he can open his mouth and the boy backs away.

He gets his sister tucked into her bed and strokes a stray hair back from her forehead. It's wet. For a moment he just stares at it. Then he fluffs her pillows, wraps her up in the plain white duvet. He shudders. In this state it reminds him of a funerary shroud.

Eventually he turns back to England.

"You can help me tidy this up." He gestures to the general chaos of the room. The boy immediately starts gathering papers. Between them it doesn't take long to pile up pages and pages of quotes, ideas and theological arguments on the chest of draws. He even fishes her phone out from under the chest of draws. After the rustling stops, the silence is deafening.

"I didn't mean to upset-"

"Don't." The child flinches. But India is dizzy from emotion, and can barely stand to look at the child right now. He can't do this. "I need to sort out food. Stay here, and think about what you did. We'll talk about this later."

He waits for the child to nod before taking the mess downstairs.

In the kitchen, he can breathe again. He leans against the wall to hold himself up as his limbs shake. Gently, he lay the papers on the table. There were twenty of them, with at least double that number upstairs. Bangladesh had always been devout, but never like this.

Mixed in with the direct quotes were theological theories- ramblings really. Her writing had suffered the same as her texts from sleep deprivation. Sentences were disjointed, changing subjects randomly or ending without conclusion. It was difficult to follow but it all revolves around a small range of passages.

_I seek refuge with Allah and with His Power from the evil that I find and that I fear._

_In the name of Allah I perform Ruqyah upon myself from everything that harms me and from the evil of every soul, or from every envious eye, may Allah cure me._

It didn't take a genius to realise she'd attempted to exorcise herself. And botched it.

He clenched his jaw, if that was the case then why was she now unconscious? An excorsism in Islam either worked, or it didn't. Or perhaps he was way off base, England had done nothing to trigger his own fit. Perhaps this is just the same.

Her phone buzzes. Three missed messages.

* * *

_Bengal? Are you feeling a bit better?_

_Bengal?_

_Are you ignoring me, Bengal? _

* * *

He stares at the lock screen for a long while, they're most definitely private. Even as he watches it buzzes again. Four missed messages.

* * *

_Seriously bengal stop scaring me like this. _

_Bengal?_

_Bengal!_

* * *

He doesn't open them up, even as the phone keeps buzzing. Instead he messages Norway.

_Norway, I'm just back from the Thakurs. Not a transformation, it's a translocation. Total translocations now 4. Transformations 0. Also some fires- failures maybe? _

_My sister just had a seizure. _

He pauses for a moment, thumb hovering over send. He adds more.

_Also you were wrong. England not safe around adults either. _

_**SEND. **_

He puts the phone down and heads upstairs again. His feet are heavy on the stairs, and when he stands outside of Bengals room his whole body is stiff. The door is still open. England is slumped next to Bengal, not touching her. India fights the urge to drag him away. Instead-

"England."

The child looks at him, eyebrows scrunched in stress, then stands. India steps aside to let him into the corridor before shutting the door, closing them in.

"Why was it your job to stab him." His voice is quiet and controlled. His hands are in his pockets and his arms close in with a relaxed spine. Deliberately unthreatening. The child shrinks in on himself- though he adopts India's posture. Mirroring him. Silently.

"Eng-"

"I'll pack my bags, yeah?" his voice is flat and unemotional, and he stares past India's shoulder rather than look him in the face.

"You're going nowhere until you tell me why you hurt Ishaan." England's face doesn't change.

"Because I did."

"England-" India growls. The child's eyes suddenly flash angrily.

"He was going to hurt you! If that's what you want, fine- I don't care! But you _told _me they were going to give you information" England isn't shouting, but only by force of will. "And they didn't! They were lying to you. If you're going to be weird, _fine._ But _you're _the one who didn't tell me!"

India splutters and barely holds his own voice in check. "This is not my fault. I shouldn't have to worry about you going mad if someone twitches the wrong way!"

England's eyes widen in shock. "I'm not mad!"

India can't help himself, he waves a hand in frustration. England flinches. "Aren't you? Who _does _that?"

"Then just chuck me out right now! I did what was right. I know it. I _was taught it! _If you don't want me then just _do it. I don't care!_" India's ears ring as England gives up on keeping his voice down. "You knew it! You told me that we weren't going to leave without the information!-"

"To keep you calm! Not so you'd _stab _him!"

They stand across from each other screaming. India's heart is thumping fast against his rib cage as his throat burns. Endland stands across from him eyes screwed narrow and fists balled, face sun-burn red. All pretense at keeping their voices down had failed.

"Who taught you!" It's a demand. Not a question. England's laugh is choked off with a dry sob.

"Why! So you can shout at them before you get rid of me? It doesn't even matter. I didn't even do anything _bad_."

"You stabbed a man!"

England's eyes are wide and hopeless. "He deserved it!"

India lets out a ragged yell and waves both his hands above his head. "Why!"

"He was going to hurt you! So I hurt him first." England's voice has descended into a furious growl. "If he didn't want to get hurt he should have got out of the way." Suddenly England leaned back and his face closes off into pained contempt as he blinks rapidly. "My king would have at least said thank you."

India's heart stopped and plummeted into his stomach. "What."

England suddenly pales and squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment India thinks he'll clam up. Then he meets India's eyes directly. They bore into him.

"My king would have understood what was needed. He would have known I was doing it for him. He would have been proud that I wasn't being _weak_.!" England's voice chokes off for a second, his shoulders shake, and his hands clench and relax repeatedly. He visibly fights to stay in control.

"And unlike you he _actually _cares about me. He understands he can't protect me from _anything_\- they'll always be a scarier fish, and if I'm not ready it'll crush me. And I'd deserve it." England spits it like venom. "So if keeping me safe means making sure I can fight, or making sure prisoners don't run away, or - or waking up at sunrise to practice or even executing people! I don't care. It'll make me strong and safe and that's all that matters. And do you know what!" He flings an arm out viciously and snarls.

"I'm _good_ at it. I'm tougher than any actual person. I can train harder, I mend faster - even if I break bones." India's entire body goes cold from shock. The child draws himself up to his full height. He barely comes up to India's chest. His eyes are cold as ice, even as his hands shake and tremble.

"I _enjoy _it. And if you can't handle that you can take your bulshit and _shove it up your arse!_" England's voice cracks and squeaks- and he grabs his mouth with bruising force. But he can't seem to stop himself, even though the tears are being held back by shear force. It just comes out muffled.

India is frozen. The hard lump of horror has tangled itself into a painful knot of pity which scrapes itself along his insides every time he swallows. It takes a moment to gather his thoughts as the child fights against his own instincts.

"You don't like doing that, do you?" He says eventually. England freezes, audibly choking on a sob. In his youth, India was never interested in what happened outside his borders- if it didn't happen to his family or China, he ignored it. He almost regrets that now, because the only nation he can think to compare this to is Russia. He doesn't know if it's close enough to be useful.

The boy doesn't say anything, but turns his face away. The knot in India's stomach sinks even lower. Suddenly the kid mutters to himself in his own language.

"It's not like it's a secret." He doesn't look at India when he speaks, and his French is thick with distress. "I protect the king. I fight in their wars. I serve their food. I dress them." He pauses for a second. "I keep peace in their house. In return they - make sure I can learn. It protects me."

His voice falters, and India knows if he lets it lie the boy will never speak of it again. The adult hadn't.

"From?"

"Everything-" His voice is breathy and panicked. "-I could be captured, or overrun again, or sold into slavery, or hurt, or tortured, or killed - not _normal_ killed but killed _forever _and-"

"And that makes it ok?"

England looks at him, finally, imploring. His lip was shaking. "It's the only thing I'm good for. I'm too stupid to be a diplomat and too nasty to be a monk. And some one has to keep Wales in line."

India takes a sharp breath through his teeth. He knows this side of the story. "So as long as it's for your king you can hurt anyone you like? Even your brother." His voice is very careful and flat, trying to keep the child talking but unable to prevent his feelings showing completely. In his mind's eye he sees Ishaan bleeding. He very carefully does not think about who the 'king' in that situation was. For all sorts of reasons.

Headless of his tone England nods, eyes distant, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Not anyone I _like. _Just anyone who needs it."

"And you think that works do you." England jumps at his tone. Then he says something that immediately shatters it.

"Worked on me, didn't it?"

He doesn't sound blase, like he doesn't understand what he's saying. Instead he sounds...exhausted. Like he'd long since accepted something ugly and painful and learned to live with it. As much as India didn't want to think it, or wanted to think the adult would have told him, it fit. It didn't sound like a lie. And what he'd already described- being a child servant and soldier- wasn't so very different.

It's a thought all at once too alien and too obvious. He doesn't know what to do with it.

"Who." he almost jumps at his own voice. England gives him a despairing look.

"Lots of people. It doesn't matter. I got less weak." The last sentence is a dagger in India's heart, He doesn't know enough to fix this. But he remembers the things people would say to him. It's not the same. But.

"It still hurt you though, didn't it?"

England shrugs, tear tracks dried on his face, which is perfectly blank. "And? It's not like I can die from it. Not really."

"That's not the point." Vaguely India wonder who said that to him. Correction. He wonders who said it to him _first_.

England shrugs, and silence falls again. After a moment a thought clearly crosses his mind. His lip wobbles before he bites it and squeezes his eyes shut. "Can I at least say goodbye to Bengal before I leave?"

India stares at him before kneeling down to his level. The boy turns away. "England, look at me." He does. "I'm not getting rid of you."

Tears spring up in those large green eyes. "Why? I _failed you_."

India opens his mouth and swallows his pride. "You did the best you could. But please, _please, _promise me you won't hurt anyone else again. Even if they look like they might hurt me. That's not your job." England stares at him like he's an alien. Maybe to him, he is..

"But it _is._" England whispers. "Why do you even care. I hurt you didn't I? Even my older self hurt you didn't he?"

India's skin goes cold. He hadn't even considered that the child might pick up on that.

"Your older self...he used to hurt people to control them, to make them do what he thought was best. I'm not going to lie to you." England turns his face away, clearly in pain. India reaches out and touches his chin. The boy flinches. "But no one deserves to be treated that way. Not Ishaan, not Wales," on the second attempt he turns England's face towards him. "And not you, either."

England's face crumples and his eyes fill with tears. India opens his arms in a silent offer and England flung himself into the hug, burrowing himself into his chest and finally, _finally_. Cries.

* * *

The exorcism Bengal uses is based off the Ruqyah I could find online. I tried to cross reference it with several sources, but as I don't speak Arabic at a certain point I just have to trust that the translations are accurate. Hopefully I haven't butchered the scene too badly. The quotes were from this site  nine-ways-to-perform-ruqyah-on-yourself-for-ailments-evil-eye-jinn-magic-etc-ruqyah-series-2/ Please tell me if it's wrong and I can edit it!

England attacking Ishaan is based off something called the Civic Discipline model of torture (because that was the more way of using torture in the medieval period). It's more to do with control and punishment than extracting information. Which is good for my story because torture can't extract acurate information. I got my information from a tumblr called ScriptTorture, who do a lot of research, and a book called Torture and Democracy by Darius Rejali.

Poor India. He didn't ask for this shit :P


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 - Tea With Milk And Anger

43 AD- Invasion of the Romans

410 AD- Retreat of Romans in Britannia

5th century (?)- Anglo-Saxons

793 - Vikings

1066~

A quiet groan interrupts him- he jerks his head up, but it's not Bengal, it's England. He's sprawled against Bengals bed, head resting by her feet, but still on an uncomfortable wooden kitchen chair. He squirms and mewls - India pokes him. He wakes with a yelp, but nods sleepily at India before going back to sleep. This had happened three times now. England had pushed him away sharply after he'd cried himself out, and had turned away, clearly wrestling himself back into his normal. It hurt. But he'd stayed with Bengal all night and clearly let India see him sleep. It was something- trust.

But change? He just couldn't know yet. Maybe.

India sighs, setting down the history book and his notes to rub away stiffness in his back and neck. The phone reads 5.30am. No new messages. It's not a surprise- there's been no change all night. Bengal is still unconscious.

Aside from England's periodic nightmares (curse related? Personal? The child hadn't said and he hadn't asked) the pair had been still. He'd watched them, staving off sleep by reading Bengals papers- all Ruqyahs, until the words blurred across the pages. Despite what she believed, he could follow what was written and meant- and it should have been safe. Why hadn't she trusted him with it? What had been so terrible that she'd felt the need to hide? Had -

He swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. _Correlation is not causation. _His stomach flips over and he swallows again, quickly, reflexively.

Stuck, he'd then picked up a book of England's history- privacy was good right up until a man got stabbed. Now he knew-

Well, what? He knew England had been in the battles and he knew he'd been expected to justify and engage in battering his siblings. He knew he'd been scared, and believed the shit that had been fed to him. But the rest was all lists- what could he say about the Anglo-Saxons or Rome or even the Vikings? The Normans were probably bad but…

Sleep overtakes him. Then his ringtone nearly kills him in shock. He stares at it uncomprehending before opening the message. 7.40. Norway. He flails at it it. It hangs up. He screams quitely.

Luckily, Norway rings again.

"Hello?" India winces at his own voice- he sounds like he's gargled a cheese grater.

"If I accept your time travel theory, will you set up a spare room for me?" Norway's voice is depressingly alert and- is that cars he can hear?

"Whuh?"

"...Obviously if you can't I can stay at my embassy but .." India cuts him off.

"No, we've got plenty of room, I hardly think England would mind," India's brain is slowly catching up to the rest of him, bringing the relief he should feel from being believed. Norway lets out a soft laugh.

"I'm not so sure of that," he sounds sad, and a little bitter. "I'm sorry about your sister. Is she still unconscious?"

"I...yeah, she hasn't stirred all night." Again with the swallowing. He should really get a glass of water, to at least wash away the fear. If nothing else.

"Are you ok? What happened with England?" Norway's voice is notably softened. India's not sure how to feel about that.

"Yeah. Thanks. What time are you arriving?" He avoids the final question, some things are best said in person. Suddenly a bolt of terror hits him. "You're not bringing his brothers are you?"

There's a moment of silence on the other end, and India hopes he isn't offended by his blatant avoidance. "No, I left them and Denmark at Sweden's place last night when I got your texts." India breathes a sigh of relief. "I should be with you by lunchtime, ok?"

India thanks him, signs off. Then leans back and stares at his charges. They looked like a painting in the weak, early morning light- he could almost fool himself that they were both asleep. His heart clenches.

He needs to get out of here.

His head is so fuzzy that it's a real fight to make it downstairs and to make a cup of tea without tumbling head over heels and into a cupboard or a wall. As it is he struggles to operate the kettle. Tea brings some life into him, but also brings the pain in his back and legs into sharp relief- even nations aren't built for all nighters in wooden chairs. He paces around the ground floor to gently stretch them off. It's on his second lap that it hits him. He marches back into the living room.

The living room is dark in the early morning sunlight, large windows letting in what little there was to no avail. Still it was nice, overstuffed chairs and sofa surrounded by little decorative coffee tables. And more bookshelves of course. And all of them had at least one ornament.

Apart from the mantelpiece.

Over the fire, at the heart of the room, it stood naked and empty. He hadn't rightly noticed before, between his sister and the little boy causing havoc everywhere he went- and the curse. But typically it was stuffed to bursting with family photos. Big ones, small ones, wartime ones, christmas ones, baby ones- much to the consternation of the younger nations. Even Victorian ones in black and white. And at the heart of it stood a big family photo that had been updated every few decades stretching back to the invention of the camera.

He runs his finger along the naked shelf. Dust. Thick dust.

'_BrrBing!'_

He jumps, head snapping back. The doorbell? He checks his phone for updates, nothing. As harsh as it was England didn't seem to have any friends who would check on him, and it was too late for it to be the milkman. He opens the door. Postman, maybe?

It's Pakistan.

He slams the door shut.

"Ow! Open the door! Fuck!"

In the split second the door had been open, the woman who was technically hissister had wedged her foot in the door. As far as India was concerned it was her own fault it had got caught. He lets the pressure off anyway and opens the door to glare at her. She meets it without flinching.

"Finished?" Pakistan is the same height as him, but being female lends her the frankly unfair advantage of high heels. Especially when he's still barefoot.

"What do you want."

"Oh you know, quiet, peace on Earth, my rights to my border resp-" She cuts herself off with a forced cough. The interruption to her habitual snark is uncharacteristic. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. She shuffles uncomfortably in the doorway as her face- almost a mirror image of his own- rearranges itself into something more appropriate and subdued.

"Bengal tried to exorcise herself didn't she?" The eyebrow comes back down. Pakistan's face is barely changed, but he knows her better than that. She's afraid.

His eyes narrow. "How do you know that?"

Her eyes flick sideways to avoid them. "Can I come inside?"

Reluctantly he lets her in. In the hall she shrugs off her silver grey trench and slips off her unnecessary shoes. She avoids his stare, spending a few moments adjusting her skirt, shirt and scarf. They're impressive, gleaming iridescent green with gold embroidery. His comfy blue striped pajamas don't compare at all.

The thing that offended him most however, was the small, peacock blue suitcase she'd dragged in behind her. It was only a weekend case, but it fucking rankled.

At least without the heels she didn't tower over him anymore.

"Explain." His voice is icy cold. He's too tired for diplomacy. Pakistan looks unbalanced by the omission of their fighting -it only lasts a second.

"She asked me for help," her voice is calm and measured. "You know our sister, she's not normally one for Ruqyah. She wanted a second pair of eyes. You-" For a moment she pauses, before clearly biting her tongue, then she closes her eyes and starts again. "The sleep deprivation was messing with her, and I think she didn't want to put more on you."

There's a moment of silence where India tries to digest this. The first emotion is of course, frustration- he'd worked that out himself, thanks. Others boiled underneath- guilt, worry and a dash of betrayal. Pakistan shifts uncomfortably.

"Is she ok?" India looks at her, she's rubbing her hands nervously. "Did it work?"

"She had a seizure last night. She's been unconscious ever since." She pales.

"What? But that's not right - "

"I know." His voice is heavy, like his body, with tiredness. Up all night and he's no closer to that answer than before. "I don't know what happened."

"Can I see her?"

A chill runs down his spine- cutting through everything else. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

Pain flicks across her face and she clenches her jaw, visibly struggling with what she wants to say. Then she relaxes and proffers her open hands. _Look, I don't want to fight. _India tenses.

"I'm not here to hurt her ag-"

A door slams upstairs. Their heads snap round to the top of the staircase. England freezes. His eyes flick from India to Pakistan and back again. India pushes past her to stand on the bottom step.

"What is it?" Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pakistan blink at the French.

_What? Did she really think it would be that simple? _

"Bengal is awake!"

In a moment he bounds up the steps, Pakistan following behind. He has the presence of mind to order her to wait at the door before heading in himself. She ignores him. But as soon as he sees Bengal he doesn't care.

Because something is wrong.

She's sitting up, leaning doubled over and shaking in pain. Her hands are balled, white knuckled, in the sheets- still she turns and gives him a grimace-smile.

"India?" She laughs, gurgling wetly. Despite the baby face, that's modern Bengali coming out of her mouth.

A tentative smile crawls onto his own face.

"Bangladesh?"

Nose in the air she waves her hand like a queen, straightening up a little in defiance. "The one and only! Only took two weeks of judicious -" She stops, and pulls her hand down in front of her hand turning it this way and that. Smooth skin, unblemished and perfectly dark catches the sunlight. The smile slips away. A flurry of movement as her hands shoot under the covers and into her clothes, clearly feeling for something. Her eyebrows crease, then her eyes fill with worry.

"It didn't work."

"Sister?" Frightened eyes meet his.

"It only moved my mind didn't it? This is my younger body?" He nods. "Shit!" She shakes her head. "Shit! Shit! SHit! That's not right- I've been trying for weeks- fuck!" She turns back to him, face pale. "Pass me a pen and - ahh!"

She doubles over in pain- in an instant he's by her side and holds her but she flinches and waves him away. Then her hands go back to clenching in the duvet. Stomach coiling and blood freezing, he obeys.

"Paper!"

He sweeps Bengals notes aside and grabs the notebook as the pages scatter to the floor. He strips it back to a clean page and hands it to her with a pen. The fit has passed but she's sweaty and grey from pain. His heart pounds in his ears as she writes with trembling hands. As she writes, she talks.

"Here are my experiments. I was sent to thirteen sixty two, under the command of Ilah Shah. I know you don't like him but-" A wave of pain makes her yelp, and England is by her and grabs her hand. She snatches it away quick as thought- staring at him wide eyed. He flinches.

She looks up and her eyes narrow. Not at him, but past him. He follows her gaze-

"Brother." Her voice is icy calm. "What is _she _doing here." Pakistan is standing in the doorway like a green and gold statue, with a look of - the only word he can think is _grief_ but surely that can't be right. Whatever it was vanishes under scrutiny leaving sharp faced disdain in its wake.

"Saving you from this spectacular mess you've made of yourself." India opens his mouth, anger swelling in his throat. His sister cuts him off.

"Fine. Do whatever you want." Pakistan's hands clench. Bangladesh ignores her and turns to him. "I trust you know what you're doing?"

His whole body freezes for a second. Eventually he grasps for words. "I'm trying to get rid of one of them, I promise." Which of the two would be worse to keep? Her face softens when it comes back to him.

"Don't worry about it." Her hands are stiff in the bed sheets. "They'll probably come in handy."

Then she shudders, leans over the side of the bed, and throws up. India leaps away to avoid it, it barely misses his shoes. His face contorts in shock. It's _black_.

For a while she just heaves, and he's rooted to the spot. There's a clank- England has grabbed a bucket and shoved it under her face. It's far too late to save the carpet but it's a gesture he didn't expect - and when Bangladesh stops throwing up he can see from stare that she didn't either.

She draws herself up, dignified if not for the shaking and the black drool slipping from her mouth- she wipes it away quickly, eyes closed.

She takes a deep breath.

"I've been using Ruqyah for weeks to try and undo the spell, with no success. I thought initially it was England-" Arthur jumps at his name but she doesn't notice. " - but that can't be true. No mortal- even a nation, can fight that. Whatever pulled me through-"She bends over and loses another wave of black vomit and as she straightens she suddenly cries out in pain- hands seizing around the blanket. India grabs a tissue and wipes away the mess she can't get for herself. Her teeth are clenched so hard only tiny wimpers escape. He grabs her hand- yelps and yanks it back.

It's burning hot- like fire.

She pants and coughs as the fit recedes. "It's not going to let me go this easily- I feel it tearing me in two." Her eyes are wide with despair. "It should have worked- I've been trying for weeks, I don't even know why it got me here now-"

"The exorcism," India breathes. "Your younger self tried Ruqyah last night - do you think?"

She nods. "It must be. I- It's almost like I'm on either side of a tunnel. One end here and the other in the thirteen hundreds. If we each tried at the same time then maybe it overrode whatever was keeping us trapped for a little while. But even then-" She gestures helplessly down at her young body. India nods.

"India, I don't think I can do it again." He stares at her, her voice is shaking and she swallows. "They won't let me." His stomach turns to lead.

"What?"

"The space, in between the two ends of the tunnel it's full of creatures-" She shudders and a wave of pain makes her yell. "These- I can't even explain them- it was so dark but I could _feel _them and - I got away but- !"

Suddenly she goes limp. India grabs her before she falls straight out of bed, Laying her back down onto the pillows he shakes her gently. A pained sound erupts from the base of his heart.

"Bangladesh? Sister? Come on, fight it!" She doesn't wake up.

He swipes his hands through his hair, giving up after only a second. Her breathing is shallow, but steady and her hands have relaxed. Under them, the blanket is burned. All around them is the sour stench of sick. She's trapped back in that tunnel - whatever it is- and there's nothing he can do.

"So you'll let me help?" India whirls around. Pakistan towers over him. He stands up sharply. She continues. "What do you think she meant by creatures?"

He stares at her blankly. Then the anger hits.

"You think that after that I'm going to let you stay?" England, who'd been crouched by Bengal, stands beside him - glaring at Pakistan. He flings a hand out. He hates Pakistan, but she doesn't deserve to be set on by the boy. Besides. He made a promise. Her face contorts in anger, but not shock.

"Oh give it _up! _What are you going to do? You're stumped. Stuck. Up Shit creek without a fucking paddle. She's my sister too and she is in danger, you have no right-"

"Nineteen seventy-one." He doesn't say it loud. He doesn't have to. Her face pales, and her body hunches in on itself in shame.

She doesn't apologize- but then again, he didn't expect her to.

"I told you, I'm not here to hurt her again." She whispers. "I swear on my soul- I'm not."

"India? England?" He whips around. His sister, still shrouded in pillows, has cracked her eyes open. Her voice is cracked and horse from Bangladesh's vomiting and yelling, but it is unmistakably Bengal. Dopey, she scans the room, her eyes widen in shock as she sees Pakistan. And she grins ear to fucking ear. "Shaha?"

Pakistan moves to take a step past him and he blocks her. The moment is awkward. Even England jumping in to check on Bengal doesn't help. Her replies permeate the room as he holds Pakistan's gaze.

"I'm fine. Tired. No it doesn't hurt too badly. The smell is pretty bad, but I'm not sure I can walk just yet." She laughs "No! He'll throw his back out completely. You bought the bucket? Thankyou. Of course I'm fine!"

Eventually, minutely, Pakistan steps back- but her eyes never leave his. It's enough.

He turns back to her to assess the truth of Bengals claims, and finds her eyes flicking back to him. Between him and Pakistan, in fact. He tries to smile reassuringly, but she scowls at him, for just a moment. It hurts his heart. But it's ok, he'll tell her the truth when she's well. He smiles at her and she does smile back. So.

He turns back to Pakistan. For a moment he watches her watch Bengal.

"Fine. You can stay." he says it in Urdu. Her shock is quickly, infuriatingly, stifled. "But if you so much as lay a finger-"

"I understand, India." There's a little hitch before she says his country name, and her eyes are tired. But he means it. It'll have to do. He stands aside so she can sit beside their baby sister.

Even though she's ignoring him, he nods. "I'll make some lunch." Not that he or his charges have had breakfast. At the door he turns back- England is glaring at Pakistan, much to Bengals whispered discomfort.

"England?" The child turns to him, but his body is facing Bengal. "Could you help me make dinner?" For a moment he thinks Arthur might refuse, but all he does is shoot another nasty look at Pakistan before joining him. India places a hand on his shoulder and switches to French.

"It's ok, she's safe now." The child nods, face firm and serious.

* * *

There is nothing, Bengal decides, quite like sunlight on cold skin, or family after nothingness. Or soft blankets. The fear of the inbetween place had burrowed itself straight into her bones . India's care and England's self-conscious worry root her on Earth, words filling up the space where anxiety would breed. And Sahadeva is here.

Which she hadn't expected.

India sweeps out of the room, England in tow, but Pakistan remains staring at her. Her face is surprisingly still, but her eyes are wide and worried. Warmth blossoms in her chest, entirely separate from the all over cold ache in her bones that the- whatever it had been, had put in her. Sick smell makes her stomach roll, but honestly she has no more to throw up. Laying down she can see Shaha's throat work, even though she remains silent. Desperate for the warmth of conversation she tries to relieve the pressure on her shoulders by sitting up. Mistake. She yelps. Everything hurts.

"Lie down, just rest ok?" Her sister reaches out to push her back down- but, honestly, she doesn't need the help because her back gives out on her. For a moment Bengal blinks uncomprehending at the ceiling. As the pain recedes, the world comes back- and her sister is hovering above her hands hovering above. Her own hands are shaking, still she gives her a smile.

Shaha smiles back, but it doesn't reach her eyes, which almost look through her. "Do you remember what happened?"

Bengal shuts her eyes. Cold. Black. A golden thread. _Fear_. "Yes. I went all the way back- home? I saw Ilah Shah again." And scared him witless with her yelling. "And then-" her throat swells up. She opens and closes her mouth. Nothing comes out. "Sorry - I don't want to-"

"Shh, it's ok." Her sister coos like Bengal is still a babe in arms, which should make her furious. But honestly she's so tired and in so much pain that it's nice to be babied for a moment. And this Shaha, with her sad eyes, knows her boundaries. She shouldn't need to fight to prove herself so much.

After a moment of soft, warm silence, her sister speaks again. "I'll mop up the sick, shall I?"

"Alright."

Bengal watches her elder sister tie up her glamorous skirts and grab a mop and bucket. Unbidden, tears fill her eyes. It's a ridiculous sight. Powerful, regal Shahadeva mopping up her baby sister's sick like a hand maid.

"What's wrong!" In an instant she's by her side fluffing pillows. It's so alien that despite the pain she starts giggling and can't stop. Her big sister cracks a smile, but she still looks so worried.

"Nothing! Nothing!" She hiccups. "I'm just so glad to see you!"

And Shaha smiles, real and genuine and swipes a hair away from her face. "Same to you, sister."

* * *

Down in the kitchen, India's phone is buzzing. He flicks it open- it's Norway.

_Can you prepare beds for two, please? Scotlands coming._

Ire- so close to the surface right now, bubbles up only to be interrupted by another buzz.

_Little shit stowed away in my boot - can't even send him back. _

He sighs, frustrated and heavy. Though his shoulders relax.

"She's your sister isn't she?" And his shoulders hitch right back up again. England is staring up at him with those lamp like green eyes- but they're wide and serious, with not a trace of guile or scorn. India lets his shoulders relax again.

"Yes." He pauses for a moment. "She's my twin." England's eyes widen in shock- going comically bog eyed. He can't help but laugh a little. It comes out slightly choked. Sibling countries were pretty normal, stick in a border or a mountain range with plenty of trade and watch them sprout like mushrooms- but twins? For most of his life he'd thought they were the only ones. Right up until he'd met the Koreas. Against his own will tears build up behind his eyes. England's mouth immediately snaps shut, and he looks at the ceiling- clearly uncomfortable.

"It's ok, I don't like my siblings either." it's so heartfelt he laughs again- but it's a little warmer this time. He breathes and pushes the tears back. "If you like I could-"

"No." His voice is firm, and he hopes one day he'l get used to the rollercoaster of emotions. Instead, he places his hand on England's shoulder. "I meant what I said. It's not your job to fight my battles - never was, never will be. I'll deal with Pakistan, ok?"

The child nods, now looking at him again- his hand has coiled into India's rumpled shirt. He needs to tell him. "On the subject, Scotland and Norway are coming tomorrow. Will you be alright with that?"

England pales and nods, his hand tightening compulsively in India's shirt. "I'm gonna have to be, aren't I?" India says nothing, but draws the boy into a warm, strong hug. The only promise he can make.

* * *

AN:

...It's not the length but what you do with it that counts? (ducks tomatoes) Joking aside, I almost feel embarrassed by the length of this chapter. I wish I could say it'll mean less time for the next one but who am I kidding. Having said that Pakistan is here….fucking finally (grumble gumble). The trouble is only just beginning hehehe.

So Pakistan has a bad relationship with both of her siblings which is sadly consistent with modern politics. Now there's only one of those that's going to be dealt with in any detail- and whilst it's technically a spoiler I wouldn't feel right not warning people. 1971 is the date of the Bangladesh genocide at the hands of Pakistans forces. Again I'm not going to go super gory, the focus is going to be on the emotional impact on the characters- but I'm going to put trigger warnings here and on the tops of the next few chapters for topics to do with genocide. Also there will be mention of partition later- again to flesh out the emotional realities of the characters and their arcs.

Sadly, I think with the themes I'm writing about and the characters I'm writing there's no way around these topics. I will do my best to handle them with respect.

The only other historical note - 793 specifically refers to the sack of the Lindisfarne monastery, which is widely considered to be the start of the Viking Raids in England.


End file.
